


In Between Days

by quixoticlux



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Fluff, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cannabis use, Depression, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Jealousy, Mental Health Issues, Pining, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt, The Royal Tenenbaums meets My So-Called Life, also ‘80s new wave, an ode to hoodies and flannel, and ‘70s punk and post-punk, brief Ben/Bazine - Freeform, brief Rey/OC, cassettes and mixtapes, featuring ‘90s grunge and alternative, one bed, pseudo siblings, record players and sexual tension in yellow tents, ward Rey, ‘90s setting, ‘90s zeitgeist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2019-06-28 00:59:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 56,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15696921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quixoticlux/pseuds/quixoticlux
Summary: They sit together on the Hanna City East Line, the city blurring past them in a kaleidoscope of neon signs and streetlamps in the blue-gray December afternoon. The elevated train swoops low underneath the city as it plunges into a tunnel. Ben looks over at Rey the entire time, at her reflection as she stares out the window. Lights in the car flicker on, off. On, off.Being on the subway for a while feels like being on a submarine. They ascend the stairs with wobbly sea legs and break the surface into the bustling heart of downtown.“First Order Records, or Resistance?” Rey asks.“First Order,” Ben says, without hesitation. “They have a better selection.”The look on her face doesn’t go unnoticed.“What?”“Nothing,” she says. “I just didn’t take you for being so… corporate.”Ben laughs. “Oh, to be seventeen again.” He laughs even harder at her answering scowl.Ben Solo is aSad Boy. When he finds himself in the hospital after driving his dad’s Falcon off a cliff, he meets Rey Johnson,Sad Girl. From then on, it’s a love affair of mixtapes, vinyl, art, flannel, books, weed, string lights, and late nights.





	1. Ben Solo and the Infinite Sadness

_On a live wire right up off the street_  
_You and I should meet..._  
  
_And I don’t even care to shake these zipper blues_  
_And we don’t know just where our bones will rest_  
_To dust I guess_  
_Forgotten and absorbed into the earth below_

_“1979” by The Smashing Pumpkins_

* * *

 

A 1977 Ford Falcon idles on the edge of a cliff.

If anyone was passing by, they’d think someone was out for an early morning scenic drive. Or maybe the occupants of the car hadn’t gone to bed yet, so this hour is still an extension of the night. Maybe it’s a couple of teenagers, windows fogged up, having claimed this dangerous bit of terrain as some sort of make-out point.

If anyone had looked a bit closer, had put down their cup of coffee, had slowed down as they passed by on the winding highway, they would’ve started to see the cracks. The rare vintage muscle car, the kind you never see around these towns outside of a car show. The closeness to the edge. So close it doesn’t seem like a miscalculation, an accident.

*

Ben doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting here.

He’s stopped looking at the time, the dash clock likely wrong anyway. Instead, he’s measuring time by the amount of times he replays this song. At four minutes twenty-four seconds, and sixteen plays… or was it seventeen?

Ben shrugs, though there’s nobody there to see it.

He takes another drag, flicks the butt out the window, into the void. Despite the temperature having dropped into the high 40s, both windows are cranked all the way down. The autumn chill drifts in, smelling faintly of damp earth and campfires. It clings to his hoodie, along with the cigarette smoke.

He stares out into the abyss. At the headlights hazy in the fog of the pale blue dawn. When the song ends, he rewinds the cassette, hits PLAY, listens to it all over again.

God, he’ll miss music once he’s dead.

No one will miss him. Not Leia, or Luke, or Poe. Not even Baz.

It’ll be a relief for them, he’s sure.

Awkward Ben, Weird Ben, Ben the Fuck Up. _What’s wrong with Ben?_

Better to go out in a blaze of glory than to die slowly—unloved, untouched, unspoken to. Shut up in his room in a self-imposed exile, losing track of hours, of days. Wondering if it’s a Wednesday or Thursday, as if it even matters, only to find out it’s actually Friday.

_Why can’t you find a job? What about your degree? Why don't you go for teaching certification? Why don’t you go out with your friends? It’s not right for a young man to be spending all his time at home. Still living at home. What about Poe? Didn’t you have a girlfriend? What happened? Why don’t you go outside? Why don’t you open the curtains?_

He’s dying slowly, just like Han. Only his drugs of choice are books, records, weed. Not Corellian Whiskey. Stories and songs are windows—brief glimpses through blinds into other lives. Scenes of other people having fun, having sex, coming home from cool jobs, to their cool apartments, to their cool lives. They do everything right. Even their mistakes aren’t really mistakes at all. Not in the way Ben makes mistakes.

When the song ends, he rewinds the cassette, hits PLAY, listens to it all over again.

At twenty-five, Ben finally accepts that he is never going to be the person he wants to be. He’ll never have the life he wants, the life he dreams about late at night, alone in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. The life he’s tried convincing himself he could have, if only he tried harder. Changed his habits, his outlook, his reactions, his expectations, all the million things that make him _him_. As if he could change completely into another person. But he never could escape himself.

Han couldn't either, in the end. All those big talks of changing things around, and he was the biggest leopard of them all.

Ben looks over at the passenger side, at the urn wrapped in a seatbelt.

He shimmies the last cigarette out of his dad’s soft pack of Rebels, his fingers tracing the X-wing logo, the drawing of the smoking tough-guy pilot. He dangles the cig between his lips but doesn’t light it.

He opens the glove compartment, pulls out a crinkled and discolored photo. A young Han and Leia on the beach, 1983, smiling and squinting in the sun. He places it on the dashboard.

When the song ends, he rewinds the cassette, hits PLAY, listens to it all over again.

He turns the volume all the way up.

He presses the gas pedal all the way down.

*

If you’re trying to kill yourself, there’s really no better way than to drive full-speed off a cliff.

It’s not like overdosing on pills, which can be pumped out of your stomach as charcoal is forced down your throat. It’s not like cutting your wrists, with instinct fighting you all the way, the pain stopping you from getting deep enough. It’s not like hanging yourself, which can go horribly wrong and end up paralyzing you instead. Even gunshots can miss.

No, there’s really no surer way to die than a ‘70s muscle car with shitty airbags—and, knowing his father, _some likely missing_ —careening off the rockiest cliffs in Chandrila, Maine.

Ben broke two ribs and his wrist. A piece of windshield glass had sliced him open from eyebrow to shoulder.

But otherwise, he is okay.

The Falcon had been totaled. The urn lost somewhere on the rocks or in the water. Leia had joked that it had been a terrible way to spread his ashes out to sea.

Ben is glad she’s making jokes again.

It definitely beats the crying jags, the hugs that would’ve broken his ribs if they weren’t already broken. The long rants bordering on hysteria and the weighted comments intended to induce more guilt than the Catholic Church and a Jewish grandmother combined.

Leia hardly ever leaves his bedside in the hospital. Which is a surprise, given her past history of ignoring and abandoning him his entire life. Yet now that he has her full attention, he isn’t entirely certain he wants it.

Luke doesn’t come. Doesn’t call. Doesn’t even send a “Get Well!” card, marketed to the wrong age group and/or gender, a coffee ring on the envelope, mailed late. At this point, Ben expects he’s more likely to receive a letter from Hogwarts.

Whatever, he's glad for it.

And he's glad for another thing: Poe and Baz don’t show up, their tails between their legs, looking at him as if they broke him. This surprises him, knowing Poe and his whole I'm-a-good-guy-even-though-I-fucked-my-best-friend's-girlfriend bullshit act.

As a politician, Leia always did have an uncanny ability to understand people, their motivations, what they need. As a mother, she was the opposite. But this time, Ben thinks she finally got something right.

*

Ben spends his twenty-sixth birthday downing shots of pills in little crinkly white cups instead of tequila.

All in all, it hadn’t been a bad birthday, as far as they go. Leia had given him immaculate tomes of Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Wallace, Chandler, Yates. All alcoholics. Two suicides.

Stacked together, they’re intimidating, the amount of pages overwhelming. Ben thanks her by suggesting she might want to lean towards poetry in the future. After all, he doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be alive.

He pretends not to see the look that crosses her face, busying himself with a random page in _The Big Sleep_.

He uses the brochure for the psychiatric hospital as a bookmark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next chapter:** “No Surprises” by Radiohead
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://quixoticlux.tumblr.com), so come talk to me about Darth Darcy and stuff.


	2. Rey is OK (Computer)

_A heart that's filled up like a landfill_  
_A job that slowly kills you_  
_Bruises that won't heal_  
  
_You look so tired, unhappy_  
_Bring down the government_  
_They don't, they don't speak for us_  
  
_I'll take a quiet life_  
_A handshake of carbon monoxide_  
_With no alarms and no surprises_

_"No Surprises" by Radiohead_

* * *

 

Rey wakes up with her headphones still on. When she pulls them off, the muffled screaming gets louder.

Usually she would ignore it, would shove a pillow over her head as she tries to catch the last few minutes of sleep before the wake-up call, but she recognizes those screams. She’s been hearing them every morning, ever since she came to this place three weeks ago. She knows it’s just a matter of time before the door to her room opens.

On cue, two orderlies come barreling in with a tall, thin, dark-haired girl. They drag her across the room, attempt to ease her into the bed two feet away from Rey’s.

The girl, Jess she thinks, fights them all the way. She doesn’t know who they are, where she is. Maybe even who she is. A side effect of morning ECT treatments. Her memory is a white sheet, phantom hands having smoothed it down.

The orderlies leave, their sneakers squeaking down the linoleum hall.

Jess’s sniffles fill the room. She reminds Rey of the bird she once found on the pavement outside the children’s home, its wing broken, trying pathetically to get up. She’d had to shoo away some kids twice her size, threatening to slam the rocks they held into their temples. She must have looked just crazy enough for them to believe it.

She _must_ be crazy, to have ended up here.

Rey swings her bare legs out of the overly-starched sheet and thin blanket, rubbing her hands down the goosebumps that have formed from the cold recycled air. She picks up her Walkman and headphones on the small wooden nightstand and places them on the bed next to the crying girl.

Rey doesn’t have many tapes, but it’s all they would allow. CDs can apparently be snapped and used as a weapon. Though pretty much anything can be used as a weapon. Who’s to say Rey can’t stab someone in the eye with her toothbrush? And she’s pretty sure the staff repeatedly playing _Bambi_ in the common room is a unique form of torture. Not that she has anything against Disney, but it’d be nice to be allowed to watch something PG-13 once in a while.

Jess doesn’t acknowledge the gift at first, her head shoved into the pillow. Rey doesn’t even know how she’s breathing. But then she lifts her head slowly, cautiously, very much like a cartoon deer, her eyes wide as a doe’s. Tears and snot are running down her cheeks, black strands clinging to it.

It’s the bird all over again. Only instead of a blanket and cardboard box, it’s an outdated media player and alternative music.

*

The Chandrila Hospital—once called the Chandrila Asylum for the Insane—is a solemn gray limestone institution erected sometime in the late 19th century. With sprawling grounds covered in oak and chestnut trees and paths lined with benches, it could easily be mistaken for a boarding school or university from a distance. Up close, the iron gates wound with chains and padlocks tell another story.

Building A is administration; it’s also where admissions and the doctors’ offices are located. Building B is for day patients, who get to go home and have dinner in front of the telly and listen to canned laughter as they studiously ignore the razor in the bathroom cupboard above the sink. But when you’re an inpatient in Building C, you don’t get to go home or go to the grocery store or to the pub.

The days tend to bleed together like multiple exposures on film.

*

**7:00 AM**

In order to circumvent the depressive tendency to lie in bed all day, perhaps listening to The Smiths on repeat, a 7 AM wake-up is enforced amongst the inpatients. It’s ungodly early in Rey’s opinion, and was clearly implemented by a Pavlov-loving, mustache-twirling sadist. The only thing that gets her out of bed is the thought of breakfast.

Rey brushes her teeth, scrubs her face. She ties her hair back into three buns, unable to properly see if it’s neat through the distortion of the polished metal mirror above the sink.

**7:15 AM**

Rey waits sluggishly in the medication line just like all the other good little zombies. Disheveled forms queue at the small pharmacy window like it’s a drive-thru.

She tips back a pill cup, Wellbutrin and Klonopin. Takes a sip of tepid water from a waxy dental cup. Opens her mouth wide. The nurse behind the counter nods. _Next._

**7:30 AM**

Rey sits down for breakfast at one of the tables in the visiting room that doubles as a cafeteria.

She’s handed a tray, her name taped to the lid over the plate. (One single-serving cereal box—Frosted Flakes today—that makes her feel like a giant. One 8 oz. carton of whole milk. One 4 oz. cup of orange juice. One mug of weak coffee that stopped being hot somewhere between the kitchen and the cafeteria. Three creamer cups. Four packets of sugar. Plastic cutlery.)

**8:00 AM**

Rey sits down in one of the folding chairs for group. They’re arranged in a circle, if the circle was drawn by a three-year-old.

Alice cries at least twice. Emma always brings the conversation back to herself, no matter who’s speaking. Rey waits to see if Liam will throw a chair today.

He does.

**9:30 AM**

Rey sits down on a couch in the psychiatrist’s office, next to a fake plant.

Dr. Nolan always begins the fifteen-minute session by asking how she’s feeling. She responds with an adjective she had looked up in the dictionary in the rec room, added to a list. Today, it’s “equanimous.” Yesterday it was “contumacious.” The day before, “lachrymose.”

Dr. Nolan wears awful sweaters and corduroy trousers, and his glasses are always perched way too low on his nose. He’s infuriating calm and answers most questions with a question. He enters into silent staring contests with her that she never seems to win. He’s clearly trying to be Robin Williams in _Good Will Hunting._

But at the very least, he’s stopped trying to convince her that her parents are never coming back.

Today, the good doctor asks if she wants to talk about why she’s here.

Rey just stares out the window, at the marbled gray sky through the criss-crossed wires in the glass.

**12:00 PM**

Rey lifts the lid of her lunch tray. (One chicken salad sandwich on whole wheat bread. One cup of minestrone soup. Three packets of saltine crackers. One overripe banana. Two 4 oz. cups of apple juice. Plastic cutlery.)

**1:00 PM**

Rey sits down at a table for another group. Art therapy, her favorite.

The hippie therapist, Ms. Kanata, brings in her own supplies. The rec room only has dried-up markers and crayons, so Rey appreciates this deeply, profoundly.

She uses watercolors to paint the autumn leaves swirling in the wind around the hospital grounds. Brilliant dying hues of red, orange, yellow, brown.

She gets lost in it, doesn’t even realize the room is empty, that art therapy ended twenty minutes ago. Ms. Kanata lets her keep the watercolor kit and paintbrush.

It’s the only time of day she feels something resembling healing.

**3:00 PM - 4:30 PM**

Rey waits at a table during visiting hours. Sometimes her caseworker comes to visit.

Today, she doesn’t.

Instead of heading back to the rec room, Rey watches the other visitors. She imagines who they are, how they live when they’re not visiting the mentally-ill.

Rey opens her sketchbook.

Scanning the room, she picks her model: an elegant woman, mid-50s. She’s wearing an expensive-looking wool coat, with perfectly-smoothed gray hair twisted into intricate braids. Rey feels particularly drawn to her. She has a quiet dignity in her lines, but a deep sadness too. She’s beautiful. She reminds Rey of royalty, of a queen.

The new kid, the one the woman is visiting, catches her staring.

He’s not really a kid, she knows this. She can see hard lines of muscle, even through his several layers of black clothing. And he has a goatee. But if he’s trying to use facial hair to distract from the scar on his face, he is not succeeding.

Rey stares at him staring at her staring at him.

His gaze is dark, piercing, through haphazard black waves. She feels like he can see right through her. She feels X-rayed.

Her first instinct is to look away. It’s too intense, _he’s_ too intense. But there’s something exciting about it, too. Like playing with fire. Like staying out too late.

Time ceases to exist as their eyes remain locked.

Her body’s rigid, her breathing shallow. Her shoulders are inexplicably tense, like she’s on a rollercoaster one second from the plunge.

She’s never felt this before, whatever _this_ is. Her heart's racing and she’s jittery and hyperaware, like she’s drunk too much of the hospital's excuse for coffee.

 _Yield,_ she thinks.

The woman touches his arm, and his gaze is ripped away as if it’s a physical thing.

**5:00 PM**

Rey lifts the lid of her dinner tray. (Two slabs of meatloaf smothered in gravy. One cup of steamed mixed vegetables. One dinner roll. Three packets of butter. One cup of green Jello. One 8 oz. carton of whole milk. Plastic cutlery.)

Rey spends more time looking at the new kid across the room than she does eating. The new kid spends more time reading a book than he does eating.

Both sit alone.

**6:21 PM ******

In the evening, Rey sits in the rec room with most of the other patents. There’s nothing else to do at this hour, all the groups finished for the day. Nothing to do but read, write, draw, or watch a video. One woman knits. They’re not allowed CDs or DVDs, but pointed knitting needles for whatever reason pass inspection.

Rey is lazily sketching a tree when the new kid walks in.

It’s a splash of cold water to the face. She sits taller, suddenly aware of her surroundings, of her body in a way she hadn’t been two seconds ago.

He's _tall._ Taller than she had thought, when they had both been sitting down.

She watches him through her periphery as he goes straight to the telly, ejects _Bambi._ He rummages around the VHS tapes piled messily underneath, most of the covers missing. He seems to find something that catches his eye, pops it in through the slot.

Rey smiles as the opening to _Hocus Pocus_ plays. She half-watches it as she turns the page of her sketchbook.

Dark hair, dark eyes, dark clothes, darkness surrounding him. It makes her fingers itch for charcoals instead of a no. 2 pencil.

**9:47 PM**

The doors to the residence hall are unlocked at 8 PM.

Usually Rey heads to her room as soon as she’s allowed to. But tonight, she doesn’t leave the rec room until he does. She finds herself wondering where his room is.

Jess is already asleep by the time Rey crawls into bed. On the nightstand is her Walkman and headphones, with a note that says “thank you” in loopy script.

Rey lies on her back, staring up at the ceiling. She tries to ignore the light from the hall. Tries to ignore the shadow of the night nurse glancing through the door window every half hour.

The night drags on.

She wonders if the new kid is awake, too. If he’s also staring up at the ceiling. What he thinks about. If he thinks about her.

Turning over, she grabs the Walkman, changes the tape, hits PLAY.

*

Rey falls asleep with her headphones still on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not sure if it came across, but I tried to make this chapter a “loop” by connecting the end with the beginning.
> 
>  **Next chapter:** “Disorder” by Joy Division


	3. Ben's Got the Spirit, But Loses the Feeling

_I’ve been waiting for a guide to come and take me by the hand_  
_Could these sensations make me feel the pleasures of a normal man?_  
_These sensations barely interest me for another day_  
_I’ve got the spirit, lose the feeling, take the shock away_

_“Disorder” by Joy Division_

* * *

 

Ben Solo wants to kill someone.

But who? Who was it? Who was the idiot responsible for putting Poe _fucking_ Dameron on his approved visitor’s list?

No doubt the curly-headed fucker charmed some silly and naive nurse’s aide, batted his eyelashes and smiled his smarmy smile and did that thing where he leans. And no doubt the woman—no, girl—fell for it, fell all over herself to jot down her number and the number at her parents’ house, too, just in case; her name in loopy cursive with hearts dotting the _i_ ’s.

Because that’s what Poe _fucking_ Dameron does. He turns women into girls. Even the ones old enough to know better. When they were in high school, he could charm his way from a C- to a B+, from a detention to a “well, just this once, we’ll let it go.” He’d be able to charm the knickers off a nun, if they had went to a Catholic school. All up the street, middle-aged housewives couldn’t help but fling open their front doors and run out to him with lemonade.

It was like that brain parasite, _toxoplasmosis_ , the one from cats that hijacks the brains of mice to throw themselves in the paths of cats.

Poe is _toxoplasmosis._

Ben would know—he used to be his best friend. Had heard Poe’s name giggled and sighed by girls since middle school. Had been passed notes reading, “Do you think he likes me? Check Yes No Maybe.” Girls didn’t like Ben. If they ever talked to him, it was to get closer to Poe.

It wasn’t only girls. He was loyally followed by everyone in the halls, from lockers to classrooms, like the enigmatic leader of some cult. His bros from the football team were always clapping him on the back, throwing an arm around his shoulder, tossing him a football, asking if he’s going to Kyle’s rager that weekend, and is he going with Claire or Steph?

Ben was often ignored. He was the weird, quiet kid. The one who wore black all the time, even in the summer. The one with all those pins on his jacket of bands nobody has heard of. The one who carried around a book all the time, even when just grabbing pizza.

Even if he was in the middle of a conversation with Poe, he was often pushed to the side, or pushed out of the booth. Left behind. Left at parties he’d never wanted to go to in the first place. Forgotten about. There were no more movie marathons on Friday night. No more band practice after school, _Air Speed Velocity_ never having landed a gig anyway. Eventually, their friendship devolved into the kind where you barely speak at all, even if you still call each other friends.

And then they graduated. They entered the real world, only to discover that the real world was one giant high school.

According to ‘80s movies, Poe Dameron should have peaked in high school. He was supposed to grow bald and have a beer belly protruding under a shirt with a name tag on it, along with two ex-wives and child support payments. Instead, he runs five miles a day, drinks green smoothies, drives a Maserati, and lives in a penthouse with a revolving front door of blondes, brunettes, redheads. He makes six-figures working as the Chief of Staff for the Governor of Maine. Who is, coincidently, Ben’s mother.

So why he went after Bazine, when he could have had any girl he wanted, could have had _anything_ he wanted, was beyond Ben.

*

“Look, I’m sorry, alright? I’m not proud of it, I’m not proud of myself,” Poe’s angry-whispering as he leans over the table towards Ben. He’s trying hard not to draw attention to himself, to this conversation, as if anyone else in the room cares. “It just…” His hands gesture vaguely in the air. “…happened.”

Ben Solo has two modes of anger: silently seething and explosive rage. His anger can range from ice cold to volcanic lava. Stoic to passionate. Calculating to impulsive. Long-lasting to burned out in a few hours. Both are cataclysmic.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Ben replies. Poe visibly relaxes, still not knowing Ben after all these years. He doesn’t realize that this is just the tip of the iceberg lurking above deceptively calm waters.

“It’s not like I planned it, like I seduced her. Like I had to twist her arm to come to Saint-Tropez or—“

“Spare me the details, thanks.”

Poe sighs. The kind of long, suffering sigh he really has no right to, has never earned. “I really like her, Ben. And we— _Baz and I_ —I don’t know, _we make sense._ ”

“Oh, is that so?” Ben’s voice has taken on an airy quality. “More sense than with me, you mean?”

Poe’s treading on dangerous territory, he must know this. Landmines. Landmines everywhere.

“Well… yeah.”

A muscle in Ben’s jaw twitches.

“I mean, we’ve known each other a while,” Poe continues. “She was a cheerleader when I was the quarterback—“

“This isn’t fucking high school anymore.”

“—and we even run in the same circles now—”

“Oh, you’re an interior decorator too?”

“And you’re been, well… _you know._ ” He rushes to hold up his palms. “Not that I’m blaming _you_ , of course—“

“Well that’s a relief.”

“It’s just…” Poe runs a hand through his hair. “It’s just… it’s not like you guys were really together anymore, anyway.”

Landmine.

“So you came all this way to tell me I wasn’t with Baz when you fucked her. Thank you. Thank you for—“

“I came here to make sure you were _okay,_ to—”

“You came to relieve your fucking conscience. How is it you even sleep at night?” Ben snaps his fingers. “Right. _Politician._ ”

“Actually, I came on behalf of your mother. Wouldn’t want to be responsible for her only son offing himself because _a girl dumped him._ ”

Ben sneers at him over the table. “You fucking arrogant prick. Like my life revolves around you and whomever you’ve managed to fuck over this week. Literally and figuratively.”

“Okay, you know what? I tried.” Poe gets up, his chair squeaking across the floor. He grabs his coat from the back of it.

“Because everything always revolves around you, right?” Ben continues. “It’s the fucking _Poe Show_ and we’re all extras. Great performance, though. Top notch. Almost made me believe you had a heart there for a second.”

“Look, it’s not my fault you’ve always been jealous of me, of the fact I actually got a job after college and a nice car and—“

“Yeah, yeah you’re absolutely right Poe. I drove a car off a cliff because I was jealous of your _fucking Maserati_. Makes so much sense.” Ben lights up, as if he’s just discovered electricity. “Hey, you should be a psychiatrist!”

“Okay, I’m gone.” Poe shoves on his coat. He’s halfway across the room, almost to the door and soon the safety of the parking lot and the imported Italian leather seats, when he hears Ben yell after him.

“Hey, try not to fuck my Mom while you’re at it.”

*

All in all, everything considered, Ben thinks visiting hour went pretty well. He didn’t throw a table or chair. He didn’t punch a hole in the wall. He didn’t bash Poe’s curly fucking head against the linoleum. Which is good, because then he would've lost his outside privileges.

Ben decides to reward himself with a cigarette. He signs his name on a clipboard, takes out two cigarettes from a pack stored at the nurses’s desk. He puts one between his lips and slips the other behind his ear.

Outside the double iron doors, it’s a brilliantly sunny but cold afternoon. He’s walking from buildings C to B to A and back again in an endless loop when he passes by a girl. She’s sitting cross-legged under one of the chestnut trees; a paintbrush in hand, a sketchbook in her lap, a cup of water and palette of watercolors spread out on the grass. Leaves are falling down all around her. 

Even with the hood of her hoodie up, he recognizes her as the girl he’s passed in hallways, sat across from in rooms. The one he catches looking at him sometimes. It happens so often he’s begun to anticipate it, to look at her to see if she’s looking at him.

Ben passes her three times. On the fourth loop, he walks off the path. He meanders towards her, as if he had been planning on going this way all along, and _oh, hey, didn’t see you there._ She’s so absorbed in whatever it is she’s painting, she doesn’t even notice him.

He stands there for a few seconds, wondering if this was a mistake, this whole _interaction_ thing. But it’s too late now, he’s standing too close and she’s looking up now and _say something you idiot._

“So, it is you,” Ben says, as if he’s said this to her a million times, just a usual greeting for them. He leans against the tree in a casual way, or what he hopes looks casual, and not like he’s one of the crazier patients. Perhaps from the mythical _Building D._

The girl just stares at him.

He scratches the back of his head. “I, uh, I really like your painting.”

The girl glances down at her sketchbook, as if she’s seeing it for the first time. She looks back up with a confused expression, as if no one’s ever told her that before. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, I really like the colors.”

Silence.

“Are you a patient here?” He tries again, then winces. “I mean, I’ve seen you around.” Better. “In group.” Brilliant, well done.

The girl smiles. For a moment, he’s blinded. “Yeah, I’m Rey.”

“Ben.”

He sits down next to her under the tree, not even caring about grass stains. He pulls out a book from the pocket of his hoodie, though he only half-pays attention to it. He watches her instead. 

Rey’s painting what looks to be an island, lush with verdure. He likes watching her paint; it’s soothing and hypnotic. It reminds him of times he’d gotten stoned and watched Bob Ross. He watches the mixing of colors, the brush strokes, the attention to detail. The change from a murky mess into something layered, intricate, beautiful. 

After a while, Ben returns to his book, this time more seriously. It’s a well-worn vintage paperback he had found in a used bookshop in SoHo one year. Leia had dropped it off for him last visit, along with a mountain of other books. He’d asked her exactly how long she thought he’d be staying here. Would he now be referred to as her _institutionalized son_ in campaign speeches?

Rey looks up from her painting, over at the campy cover of _Frankenstein_ , the monster looming over a fainted damsel. “Do you like it?”

“Oh, yeah." Then: "Have you read it?”

Rey shakes her head. Ben flips through the pages, scanning the passages he’s highlighted.

_“‘Remember, that I am thy creature: I ought to be thy Adam; but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy for no misdeed. Everywhere I see bliss, from which I alone am irrevocably excluded. I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous.’”_

Ben looks back at Rey, who has since put down her paintbrush, her full attention on him as if he’s even remotely interesting. _It must be Mary Shelley,_ he thinks.

Rey gingerly takes the book out of his hand. She flips through the pages, paying special attention to the notes he's scrawled in the margins. “You're the creature,” she observes.

Ben laughs. A hard, sardonic sound. “I’m sure there are those who think of me as one.”

Rey blushes. Ben can't even remember the last time he's made a girl blush. Maybe once in high school? Seeing the pretty pink flush upon her cheeks strokes his ego, that he could evoke such a reaction. “I'm sorry, I just meant... you _see_ yourself as the creature.”

“Maybe I do," Ben concedes.

“Why?” She seems genuinely interested in knowing.

“I think a lack of love, of compassion, can drive anyone to be a monster.”

“And you think you lack love?” 

“Don’t you?”

Rey blinks. “What makes you think that?”

Ben just stares at her. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches for her sketchbook. 

A few long moments pass as he studies her painting. He looks at the island—at the isolation, the wildness. Unrestrained. Undiscovered. Untouched. 

“You’re lonely.”

Rey doesn’t shy away, like he expects her to. She doesn’t back down. She looks right at him, into him. “So are you.”

Ben knows he should be frightened at how deep this has gotten, and how quickly. Is this a _crazy person_ thing? To be so bold? Do they have less of an understanding of boundaries, of distance, of attachment, the way normal people do? Or are they able to see things more clearly, to cut right through the inanity to something that matters, something real?

“Yes,” he agrees.

They’re somehow closer together than before. He doesn’t know how or when it happened, but it’s close enough for him to see the freckles dusting her nose, flecks of green in her brown eyes. Strands of her hair are drifting across her skin in the wind.

Rey glances away, seeming to hesitate about something. She then reaches over and turns back a few pages of the sketchbook.

Ben looks down.

It’s an ink drawing of a man consumed in black. The lines are heavy and chaotic with waves of energy, like a vibration. He’s surprised, not by her talent but that she’s drawn him at all. That he’s even worth drawing, worth looking at.

Next to the man in black is a woman. His mother. A hand on his arm. Looking at him with concern, with sadness as he looks away. Ben’s jaw tightens.

“I don’t see a lack of love,” she murmurs.

“You draw her as if you wish you knew her,” Ben snaps. “Believe me, she would disappoint you.”

Too cruel, perhaps, but then he always was honest to the point of bluntness. His report cards from grade school often were noted with _does not play well with others._

“Do you ever think maybe you disappoint _her_?” she counters. 

“Isn’t that what people do?” Ben shrugs. “Disappoint one another?”

Rey looks off into distance, quiet. “I guess,” she agrees. “But we can try our best not to.” She turns back to him, squinting one eye in the bright golden blaze of the setting sun. “Shouldn’t that count for something?”

They stay out until it grows too dim to paint or read, too cold for their hoodies. Then they walk back together, back into the lunatic asylum, back into the hallways and rooms that they’ll haunt until they’re able to get out again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at this beautiful illustration by tm2taughtmefamlaw!
> 
> **Next chapter:** "Age of Consent" by New Order  
>   
> 


	4. Age of Consent (Part I)

_Won’t you please let me go_  
_These words lie inside, they hurt me so_  
_And I’m not the kind that likes to tell you_  
_Just what I want to do_  
_I'm not the kind that needs to tell you_  
_Just what you want me to_  
  
_“Age of Consent” by New Order_

* * *

 

Five weeks ago, the last place Rey had wanted to be was in a psychiatric hospital.

Well, that’s not entirely true—Plutt’s Auto, and the apartment above it, will always top that list. On the back of band posters hanging in her room at Plutt’s were tally marks: 1,112 to be specific. She’s been tallying her days here, too. Only, she marks the days in art.

Thanks to Ms. Kanata, the art fairy who keeps giving Rey supplies, Rey draws or paints one scene every day, then numbers it. If you were to flip through her sketchbook, you would find that prior to Day 21, the subjects consist of other patients, their visitors, Ms. Kanata, trees on the hospital grounds, Mr. Nolan’s fake plant, her messy bed. Random objects in existential, sometimes absurd scenes, like something out of a Godard film, circa-French New Wave.

After Day 21, almost every drawing is of Ben Solo. He’s already teased her about being her muse; if she could “draw him like one of her French girls.” Rey had blushed furiously at this, wondering if he remembered Rose was naked during that scene.

Day 22 is a pencil drawing of Ben sitting in group, in a folding chair way too small for his tall, broad, muscular frame. She might have spent more time than artistically necessary in making sure the muscles in his biceps and forearms were properly proportional and shaded, but an artist is nothing if not diligent.

Day 23 is a watercolor painting of Ben reading _Frankenstein_ under the chestnut tree. Autumn leaves fall in the background, the red, orange and yellow paint dripping from the leaves to cascade around him like rain. Ben is sketched entirely in ink, creating a juxtaposition between his darkness and the bright colors of the leaves.

Day 25 is an ink drawing of Ben sitting at a table, clean-shaven, smirking. A tuft of black waves fall in front of his right eye as he’s looking down and to the side, as if he’s sheepish. Rey might have offhandedly mentioned the day before that facial hair was hard for her to draw. It wasn’t true; it was easy for her in fact, but it was amusing to see him sit down next to her, casually and clean-shaven, for breakfast the next morning. She’d had to hide her smile into the sleeve of her sweater. She knew they didn’t allow razors without supervision, so for him to have suffered the indignity of having an orderly watch him shave, just to please her artistically… well, that must mean something, right?

Day 27 is an ink and marker drawing of Ben with headphones on, his dark waves pulled back with it. Rey adopted a comic book style, which worked well with his bright red hoodie, his black hair shaded with blue. He was listening to New Order on her Walkman at the time. She often lets him borrow it, along with a shoebox full of tapes. (Every visit with Ms. Holdo, her caseworker, ends with a gift of a cassette, knowing how CDs are contraband.) Rey had promised she would make him a mixtape as soon as she’s out. She writes his address on the back of the sketch so she can send it to him.

Day 30 is a charcoal drawing of Ben hunched over a book. Rey loves watching him read. He always looks so serious and pensive, maybe even melancholic, like a poet. Like he should be hunched over a typewriter, wearing a white dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves, a cigarette dangling from his lips, a tumbler of scotch making a ring on his manuscript. She remembers he was reading J.D. Salinger’s _Franny and Zooey_. He had given her the book to read the next day.

Day 32 is a pencil drawing of Ben lounged on her bed, slouched against the wall and looking slightly disheveled, his hair tousled and one arm of his hoodie sleeve rolled up. The tangled sheets only add to the disarray. She wishes she could say it was a passionate scene, and it was… but only in the verbal sense. They had been discussing at length their favorite films and directors, their favorite scenes. It turns out they share an appreciation for Stanley Kubrick, Francis Ford Coppola, Martin Scorsese. But it was lights out at 10:30 PM, and the night nurse wasn’t too pleased to have to keep reminding him to return to his room.

Day 34 is a half-finished oil pastel drawing of Ben looking straight at her. Rey longs to oil paint, but that’s not something feasible in a hospital, even one with an art studio. She would need expensive oils, gesso, turpentine, brushes, a canvas, an easel. _One day,_ she thinks. But today, she uses oil pastels to try and capture his likeness as best as she can. Because it’s the last full day she’ll be here. But Ben doesn’t know that yet.

*

“Please sign here, here…” Dr. Nolan turns the page. “And here. And initial here.”

Rey doesn’t bother reading the discharge papers, doesn’t even bother skimming it. It’s just an overview of her treatment the past five weeks, her diagnoses, current medications and dosages, follow-up appointments. Everything about her life since The Incident, summed up in five pages. Except for Ben. Nothing about Ben.

Rey’s never had many friends. Growing up in group homes and foster homes meant a frequent change of address and change of schools. It also meant not having any money, or people willing to spend money on you. New school clothes every year was a foreign concept to her, as much as befriending a quiet new kid with worn and sometimes dirty clothes was as foreign to other kids. There were times she was bullied mercilessly. _Garbage Girl,_ they had called her. _Scavenger._

Before her “incident”—before she was sent to Chandrila Hospital—Rey had been living with Plutt for a little over three years, which is the longest placement she’s ever had. It was also one of the worst, but at the very least, he kept his grubby hands to himself and left her alone. Provided, of course, she worked enough in his garage for the day. If she didn’t work enough to his standards, she wouldn’t get to eat. Classroom attendance and homework were no excuses. Plutt would always remind her high school was inconsequential to a girl like her, who shouldn’t be wasting her time indulging in delusions about college, or trying to make anything of herself. And if she did, then the food cabinets would remain locked, the keys carried on a chain around his thick neck.

Rey does not want to return there. She will do anything, _anything_ if she could stay at Chandrila. If she could stay with Ben. If she could stay with Ms. Kanata and art therapy. She doesn’t even mind the hospital food. In fact, she likes her single-serving life.

Beyond the locked iron gates, Rey doesn’t have anybody or anything. On good days, she tells herself she has her parents; that they’re out there, somewhere, searching for her. Waiting for her to complete their family. On bad days, like today, she wonders if they ever cared at all.

Rey leaves Dr. Nolan’s office, her sketchbook under one arm, always with her wherever she goes. But instead of going to group like she’s supposed to, she keeps walking. She walks past the doors, spying Ben in a brief blur of black. She walks down the hallway. Past the rec room. Past the visiting room/cafeteria. Past the double iron doors, right outside into the rainy afternoon. Everything is gray.

Rey’s always loved the rain. It reminds her of England. Well, of what few memories she has left of it. She remembers the peeling floral wallpaper of the council flat she lived in with her parents. She remembers a cement yard. Broken glass. Beans on toast. Mugs of tea loaded with milk and sugar. Factories. The stale smell of beer and smoke. Someone pulling her hair into three buns.

A flash of lightning, six seconds, then a rumble of thunder. The drizzle turns into a downpour.

Rey find herself walking over to her favorite tree. It’s swaying violently in the storm. She leans against the cold bark of the trunk, looks up through half-bare branches into the monochrome sky. She’s soaked to the bone.

A black figure runs across the grounds, the hood of his hoodie up. Even from a distance, she would know him anywhere.

He runs towards her through the grayness. Lightning illuminates the sky.

“What are you doing?” Ben asks when he reaches her, slightly panting. Water is dripping down his face, dropping off strands of his hair. He even has drops on his eyelashes. His clothes must be drenched, but in all black, it’s hard to tell.

A rumble of thunder, closer now.

“I just needed some air,” she says. “Or water, I don’t know.”

“Are you okay?” Ben looks so concerned in this moment, and she loves him for that.

She loves him.

The realization echoes in her mind. But how could that be? They’ve only known each other two weeks. Is it possible to love someone so soon?

Rey looks at Ben. Really looks at him. But she doesn’t need to—she’s been looking at him for hours every day. She knows the constellations of his moles better than the ones in the stars. She knows the twitch under his left eye, the puffing of his mouth, all of his idiosyncrasies as if they’re her own.

She knows his biggest fear is ending up like his father. She knows his deepest regret, which has something to do with his father last Christmas, though he never could say what exactly happened. She knows his deepest desire is to be a published author. She knows all of his favorite books and films and records. And he knows all of her things.

Well... _most things._

He doesn't know about her suicide attempt, or how it happened, or why. He doesn't know that she's leaving tomorrow morning. He doesn't know she's seventeen.

But Rey's not thinking about any of those things right now. The only thought she has, the only thing she sees—

Ben’s lips are wet with rainwater.

It’s as if the entire universe has narrowed down to those drops of water. Her body propels her forward, almost of its own accord. And then—

She is kissing Ben. _She is kissing Ben._

He is not kissing her back.

Rey’s heart drops, heavy as lead.

She starts to rip herself away, her mind forming an apology, an excuse. But before she can say anything, before she can get far, he’s pulling her back.

Suddenly she finds herself against Ben and he’s crushing his lips against hers and it’s like the top of the rollercoaster again, only now it’s plunging. Her mouth’s open and he’s sliding in his tongue, hot and heavy, tangling with hers and his hands are encompassing her face and finally, _finally_ it’s happening.

She smells him—spicy, smoky, male. She tastes him—the roasted and sweet remnants of the black coffee with four sugars he always drinks in group. One of his hands moves to grasp the nape of her neck, pulling at her hair, her third bun untied and loose.

With one looming step Ben presses her up against the trunk. She feels the hard planes of his chest and stomach and thighs, even through his jeans and hoodie. Their clothes are sopping wet and heavy, and pressed together, it creates even more of a chill. But her body’s heating up with every mad pump of her heart. She can feel the blood coursing through her veins and rushing to her skin and his skin is warm too, and all she wants to do is shed these wet and cold barriers, to feel his skin against hers because they’re not close enough.

This is what it must feel like to be alive.

Nothing has ever felt like this before. Not even the best moments of her life. Not even drawing. For the first time, as if she’s just woken up, she feels something. Not something—everything. All at once.

Ben is the first to pull away. It’s a good thing, too, because she thinks she would have rather run out of air and died and she doesn’t even care.

His broad chest is rising and falling rapidly, his lips open and his eyes wide, looking like a man who’s just been resuscitated after drowning.

Another flash of lightning and rumble of thunder in the distance.

Ben looks back at Building C. Or, at least, she thinks he’s looking at it. There’s a long pause, and Rey would give anything to know what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling. If he has any regrets. Fat drops of water fall from the hair plastered to his forehead.

And then he’s finally looking back at Rey, pressing his lips together as he holds out his arm. She slips her hand in his, and then they’re dashing across the grounds, though Rey doesn’t really know why as they’re already soaked through. It must be the unspent energy needing to be grounded, the ions crackling in the air between them. Rey thinks she can even see it.

As Ben opens the iron door and they walk into the cold, recycled air of Building C together, Rey feels the loss as he immediately drops her hand. There’s more distance between them now—the distance of patients not permitted to have any physical contact. Three and half feet.

Now four. Six.

With every squeaky wet step of his boots upon the scuffed linoleum, Rey’s heart pounds, partially from still being slightly out of breath and partially from wondering if this is it, if she’s ruined everything, her only friendship.

It occurs to her then that she doesn’t have her sketchbook. She must have dropped it outside, the rain pounding on top of the green fabric-covered cardboard as it soaks into the pages. She can dry it it out, but it’ll be different now. The paper will be crinkly and the charcoal and paint a blotchy, murky mess.

All her drawings of Ben, ruined. She doesn’t have a photo of him, so that was all she had. That was all she would ever have to remember him by, once she left this place. And now it’s all gone, washed away, just like everything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next chapter:** Rey’s Blue Monday, Part II (still “Age of Consent” by New Order)


	5. Age of Consent (Part II)

_And I’m not the kind who likes to tell you_  
_Just what you want me to_  
_And you’re not the kind who needs to tell me_  
_About the birds and the bees_  
  
_“Age of Consent” by New Order_

* * *

 

Rey’s in her room getting changed out of her wet clothes when she hears a knock.

One look at the two patients, soaked and shivering as they came in from the storm, was enough for the staff to unlock the residence hall to allow them to change. Rey and Ben had walked side-by-side down the corridor, not touching, not saying a word, the tension rising and seemingly insurmountable. With every squeaky step upon the linoleum, Rey’s worries grew and grew.

Then Rey went to her room and Ben went to his.

She had shimmied out of all of her clothes, leaving them in a sopping pile on the floor. She had only just pulled on a soft tee shirt over her mismatched bra and panties when the knock comes. It could be one of the staff urging her to hurry up, but somehow she knows exactly who it is. It’s like she has a sixth sense for Ben Solo.

Rey opens the door.

She opens the door without sparing even one thought about putting on a pair of jeans or leggings. She opens the door to Ben standing there, towering before her, dressed in a red flannel unbuttoned over a black shirt and black jeans, his hair damp and curing at the ends. Upon seeing her, an expression crosses his face that she doesn’t recognize, has never seen before in all the hours she’s studied his face. His lips fall open, his gaze traveling slowly down her body, snagging on her bare legs before coming back up to her eyes that she knows are just as dark as his own.

Rey steps aside to let him in.

Ben wastes no time. It’s as if the world is ending in the fifteen or so minutes they have left. She stumbles back with the velocity of his body suddenly against hers. His tongue pushes into her mouth, more savagely than she thought him capable of. Usually he’s so quiet, so sweet, that she sometimes forgets the intensity vibrating under the surface. It’s a side she’s only seen in their heated discussions about films, books, music. His tongue has always been passionate, but to have it shoved down her throat is a different sort of passion, one she vastly prefers.

His large hands are everywhere—gripping the sides of her face, roaming to her hair, sliding down her back, down, down, down to her bum. He then grips her cheeks, squeezing the soft flesh roughly, pushing her center flush against him.

He’s hard.

She’s shocked. It’s shocking. She’s never felt an erection before, didn’t know it could be so… so big. So pressing.

Jolts of pleasure are shooting down her spine, pooling into her abdomen, the rollercoaster now speeding over bump after bump after bump.

And then he’s walking her backwards, over to her bed, the one he’s spent so much time in these past two weeks, only clothed and _not_ kissing her, and god, how much time have they wasted when they could have been doing _this_?!

Ben guides her down onto the twin mattress. He’s leaning over her, obscuring her vision like an eclipse until all she sees is him. His chest is heaving, his pupils are blown out black. He’s so intensely focused on her, like a hunter to prey, that Rey can’t help but think of the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood. She feels like he wants to devour her.

The mattress creaks and jiggles as Ben places his knees on it, one after the other. Rey is lying on her back on her elbows, and as he advances over her, she shimmies up the bed, then fully reclines, spreading her legs wider as he settles in between them. He’s all around her, encompassing her, his weight pressing her down into the mattress, and it’s still not close enough.

She wants to feel him. All of him. She wants him to consume her until she doesn’t know where Ben ends and Rey begins. She doesn’t want to be aware of anything else. She doesn’t want to remember anything else.

They kiss again until they run out of air. Then Ben’s kissing down her neck, her hands tangling in his locks. As he leaves a hot trail of open-mouth kisses on her skin, a scene from an old 1930s film she had seen late one night enters her mind: a vampire, shroud in black, erotically biting the neck of a silvery maiden, who goes limp in his arms. Ben’s mouthing on her neck hits a spot that shoots straight down to her cunt, over and over, and she knows that if he were a vampire, she wouldn’t think twice about letting him claim her. She would follow him into the dark.

A breathy moan slips out, but she can’t even find it in herself to be embarrassed. Her hands grasp at his shirt, bunching it up, snaking under it to feel the heat radiating off his smooth skin. She feels his hard muscles flexing as he begins to thrust erratically. Her legs wrap around him, pulling him closer, closer. She feels the hardness in his jeans against her thigh, against her panties, insistent. The bed is squeaking rhythmically.

Her panties are soaked through. She’s never gotten this wet before, ever. The two kisses she’s had before Ben had been forgettable—too sloppy, tongue either lying like a dead slug in her mouth, or thrusting like a jackhammer. They hadn’t made her even _think_ about sex. 

Even touching herself never elicited this much of a response. It’s not like she’s had many opportunities though, there never being enough time or privacy. And the men in her fantasies were always too vague, too unreachable. But here, right now… Ben is filling up her senses, and she just knows she’ll never think of another man again. He’s ruined her, but it’s a delicious kind of ruin. She wants him to keep ruining her. 

Ben snakes his hand down and with one long finger, he traces the seam of her swollen and throbbing lips through the drenched fabric. She waits for him to slip it inside, but he doesn’t.

The bed continues to squeak back and forth.

Rey decides to be bold. She reaches down between them, clumsily trying to undo the button of his jeans, but suddenly he stops moving. His hand covers hers, stopping her. Everything just stops. It’s like a bucket of ice water.

“Rey,” Ben pants, his eyes black and wild. “We can’t.”

Rey just stares up at him, not processing what is happening. Or not happening. “But…” she whines. “You started it…” It sounds childish and pathetic, even to her own ears.

“I know,” he mutters, one hand running through his disheveled mop of hair. A flash of possessive pride courses through her, knowing she did that to him. “But not here. I don’t want our first time to be in a fucking hospital bed in a fucking lunatic asylum.”

Rey opens her mouth to disagree, that really she’s perfectly _fine_ with doing it right here, right now, when he cuts off whatever she’s about to say with a long, deep kiss.

“Besides,” he continues while she’s still dazed. “There’s not enough fucking time right now to do what I want to do to you.”

“Say ‘fuck’ again,” Rey teases.

Ben smirks. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Rey tries to pull him down again, to kiss him some sense into him, but he won’t budge. He’s like a mountain. A sexy mountain.

“Rey,” he warns, and she finds she likes the sound of it. His hands cusp her face. “Rey. Listen. I promise, when we get out of here, I’m going to fuck you. I’m going to fuck you so hard, you’ll be sore for days. You won’t be able to walk without thinking of me. I swear it.”

Another jolt of pleasure shoots down.

“But first, I’m going to take you out on a date. A real date. One with tablecloths and candles and popcorn and shit. All of it.” The corner of Ben’s lips quirk up. “I’ll even meet your parents. Put on a tie.”

Rey’s heart sinks. She couldn’t possibly think of a worse time to have this conversation, but she knows she has to.

“I, uh… Idon’thaveanyparents,” she mumbles.

“What was that?”

“I don’t have any parents.” Rey looks down, at a piece of string unraveled from his flannel.

“Oh,” he says. “I’m sorry. Are they dead?”

“No,” she admits. “But sometimes I wish they were.”

Ben is silent, but she knows it’s not in a judgmental way. He’s waiting for her to continue. After all he’s shared with her regarding his parents, she knows that he knows exactly what that feels like, better than anyone.

“They left me. Left me in front of a Tesco when I was five,” Rey admits. “Then they went ahead and had another kid. Or adopted him, I don’t know.” She shrugs as best as she can while still being pinned underneath him.

“Shit. That’s rough.”

“Yeah,” she says, her voice cracking. “I found out through an article in the paper. Some science fair. He won a prize. There was a picture with him and his parents. I recognized the names from my case file. And there they were, in print and everything.”

Rey feels her eyes watering, but she’s powerless to stop it. A big, fat tear slips out, but before it runs down her cheek, Ben’s finger reaches out and captures it. “They looked proud.”

“Rey,” Ben practically growls. His hands grip the sides of her face so tightly, it almost hurts. “Fuck them. You don’t need them. You’re not a child anymore. Stop holding on.”

Rey feels like she’s been slapped.

“You don't understand,” she mutters, shaking her head to shake him off. “You had parents. You still have one left. I have nothing. No one.”

“You have me.”

Before she can respond—before she can do anything, like kiss him—there’s a trio of knocks on the door, and Rey knows that their time together is counting down in more ways than one.

*

It’s in afternoon group when it happens.

The counselor—a tall, rotund man by the name of Temmin Wexley, who insists on being called “Snap,” to everyone’s eye-rolls—announces to the group that it’s Rey’s last day.

Ben’s eyes snap to her so fast, she can feel the whiplash.

Rey doesn’t dare look at him. She can’t.

Snap asks if she has any parting words, any advice to the new inpatients. She shakes her head no, but Snap never was one to take a hint. Or a blinking neon sign.

Rey stares into her styrofoam cup of lukewarm coffee as if it’s a magic elixir that can get her out of this, but she knows he won’t let up until she at least says _something._

Rey sighs. A long, drawn out sigh. “I’m Rey.” She clears her throat. “It’s my last day here. I’m being discharged tomorrow morning.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

“Okay I guess.”

“Anything else?” he prods. “Any other feelings?”

Rey rolls her eyes, then calls to mind her adjectives list. "Recalcitrant," she says. "Mendacious."

Snap furrows his brow before moving on to the next person. 

As the hour passes, Rey still can’t muster the courage to look over at Ben. Yet she sees him in her peripheral, can feel him burning a hole through her.

Liam doesn’t throw a chair, and she’s bitterly disappointed.

*

Rey’s walking back to the rec room when she feels a hand grip her bicep, curling all the way around. She finds herself being pulled into the empty art studio, the late afternoon light pouring golden beams through the windows.

“What the hell?” Ben hisses, towering over her.

“I’m sorry. I was going to tell you.”

“When?”

Rey shrugs. “Tonight, I think.”

“You think,” he echoes.

“Yes.” Rey closes her eyes. She takes a deep breath—in, out. “There’s… there are things I need to tell you.”

Ben is silent. Rey can hear him breathing in the quiet stillness.

 _Better to just rip off the band-aid,_ she thinks. _Just do it._

“I’m going back to foster care.”

If it was quiet before, it’s _deafening_ now. Rey slowly and cautiously opens one eye, squinting at him.

For the second time that day, Ben has a look on his face that she doesn’t recognize.

“Foster care,” he repeats. A loaded pause. “How old are you Rey?” His voice is calm, but deceptively so. Like that river that runs sideways, deceiving people into crossing it before pulling them under the currents to drown. 

Rey’s mouth opens but no words come out. 

“How. Old. Are. You.”

“Seventeen,” she whispers, staring at the motes floating in the light.

Ben’s eyes close. His nostrils flare. A few long moments pass. “I thought you had to be at least eighteen to even be here.”

“You do,” Rey explains, her voice sounding like it’s far away, already down the hallway and out the doors and gone, away from him forever. “The Hanna City Institute was overfull, so they sent me here.”

“And you... you’re going back to _foster care._ ”

“Yes,” she says bitterly. “To live with an awful man who doesn’t think I should go to college or eat or do anything but work for him.” The tears are spilling again, her voice choking up. “And I’m sorry, Ben. _I’m so sorry._ I knew… I knew you wouldn’t want this, you wouldn’t want me if—“

“Rey,” he interrupts, his voice sending a chill down her spine. “I want you to tell me _everything._ ”

And she does.

*

It’s the last visiting hour Rey will ever have, which means it is likely the last time she’ll ever see Ms. Holdo. Rey will go back to Plutt’s, and then she’ll be eighteen in nine months, fourteen days. Two hundred and eighty-seven more tally marks.

Ms. Holdo gives her a cassette—The Cranberries—even though she won’t be needing it anymore. Rey clutches it to her chest regardless, trying not to cry.

Across the room, Ben is sitting with his mother. They seem locked into an intense discussion, her hand on his face, seemingly whispering motherly purls of wisdom that Rey can only guess at from a lifetime of being raised by sitcoms. She’s guessing they’re having a Very Special Moment.

Suddenly, Ben’s mother looks over, directly at Rey.

Rey sits straighter in her seat, as if she’s being called on. The elegant woman gets up and walks over to their table.

“Amilyn,” she warmly greets Rey’s caseworker, clasping their hands together. “So lovely to see you again.”

Ms. Holdo smiles as she rises from her seat to hug Ben’s mother tightly. “Leia. I didn’t know you were visiting someone here.”

“Yes, my son,” Leia replies, and Rey doesn’t miss the look that crosses Ms. Holdo’s face. Does she not know Ben? “And you must be Rey.”

“Y-yes.” Rey is shocked that Leia knows who she is.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” Leia smiles. It’s the kind of smile Rey wishes she could have directed at her forever. “If you’ll excuse me dear, I need to have a chat with Amilyn here. But we have so much to discuss.”

Rey’s never felt more confused. Discuss what? She looks at Leia and Ms. Holdo and back again, but they’re already having a silent conversation between them, and soon they’re walking out the doors into the hallway, towards the offices.

Rey looks over at Ben. Or, rather, where Ben was. There’s only an empty table now, and an empty feeling in the pit of her stomach.

*

Later that night, Rey sits cross-legged on her bed, sketching and listening to music. She waits for Ben to come but he never does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next chapter:** “Isolation” by Joy Division  
>  (Also featuring “I Wanna Be Sedated” by the Ramones)


	6. Isolation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? Joy Division _again_?

_Mother I tried, please believe me_  
_I’m doing the best that I can_  
_I’m ashamed of the things I’ve been put through_  
_I’m ashamed of the person I am_  
  
_Isolation, isolation, isolation_  
  
_But if you could just see the beauty_  
_These things I could never describe_  
_These pleasures a wayward distraction_  
_This is my one lucky prize_  
  
_“Isolation” by Joy Division_

* * *

 

In the lobby of Building C is a row of wooden telephone booths from the 1970s.

When you slide open the collapsing door, there’s a bench on the left, a pay phone hanging on the right, and a small table underneath with the Yellow Pages and an ashtray, in flagrant disregard of the smoking ban because phone calls—especially with a heavy black receiver—always seem to go better with a cigarette.

From morning wake-up call to lights out, in the time between groups and psychiatrist appointments and meals, the booths are filled with a rotating assortment of people. Ben walks past all of them, entering the last booth on the right. He slides the door closed and sits down, staring at the sharpie’d initials and other random sentiments that have been graffitied over the years, his personal favorites being “10/10 would stay here again” and “Angela you fucking bitch I love you.”

Ben picks up the receiver and dials a local number.

*

**Three minutes later…**

“Hello?”

“I’m sorry,” Ben says, as a way of greeting.

Silence. Then: “For which part?”

“I don’t know.” He runs a hand through his hair. “All of it.”

Silence.

Ben rises from the bench with the sudden desire to pace, but there’s nowhere to go. “I just need some time to figure things out.”

“What’s there to figure out?”

 _“You’re seventeen, Rey,”_ Ben hiss-whispers, as if there’s police listening in on the other side of the booth walls.

“And eighteen makes more of a difference? Really? _Less_ than a year?”

“Yes,” he says, without hesitation. “I’m twenty-six, Rey. Do you know what people would say?”

“I didn’t realize you cared so much about what other people think.”

“I mean, _fuck_ , you’re still in high school—”

“And you still live at home.”

Silence. It’s a low blow and they both know it.

A few tense moments pass before he hears Rey sigh into the mouthpiece. “I’m sorry. But does it really make that much of a difference?”

_“Rey.”_

“I’m eighteen in nine months.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, closing his eyes. “So you’ve just turned seventeen, too.”

“So all of this, all of what happened, it just meant _nothing_ to you—“

“I’m not saying that—“

“I mean nothing to you—“

“ _I’m not saying that._ ”

“Look, I’m leaving in ten minutes…”

“I know.”

Another long pause.

“Well?”

“Just…” Ben’s arm is leaning against the side of the phone. He leans his head against his arm. “…I’ll see you when I get out.”

Ben waits a few seconds for a response, but none comes. He hangs up the receiver, the click reverberating in the space, though him. He stares at it for a few seconds, in one of those moments where he feels locked in, where time freezes like a movie on pause.

He then slides open the booth door, leaning against the frame as he watches Rey exit two booths down, a suitcase in hand. His eyes follow her, waiting to see if she’ll turn around, half-hoping, half-dreading it.

There’s a moment. A second where she pauses, her steps faltering. But then she’s pushing open the front door, disappearing into the bright but cold November morning.

*

Time now passes in a monotonous blur.

Ben hadn’t realized how much time he had spent with Rey, how much he had gotten used to her being there, until she wasn’t anymore. Even when doing something solitary like reading, she was always hanging around, sitting or lying beside him, lost in her art. Her Walkman would often be passed back and forth between them every few songs. Sometimes they’d balance the headphones on their shoulders as they sat side-by-side so they could both listen to whatever was the _perfect song_ at that moment.

Their time together had a soundtrack.

The first night alone, when he had slinked to his room as soon as the residence hall opened for the night, he had discovered her Walkman and a shoebox full of tapes on his bed. He had half-expected to find a note, maybe even a love letter. No, love letters were more his forte. A drawing. That would be Rey. But there was nothing except a haphazard assortment of bands, of albums, as if every piece of plastic was part of a puzzle of their friendship. To reach in and pick tapes at random was to go back and forth in time.

Late at night, Ben listens to those tapes. Certain songs are on repeat, his fingers constantly pressing the cool metal buttons of the cassette player.

**REWIND**

Almost from the start, things between Ben and Rey moved at lightning speed.

During the day, they existed together in a bubble, a two-person clique, in a world all their own, away from the other patients. They sat together at tables, on folding chairs, on couches, on grass, on floors, on her bed or his. They traded possessions like it was a coded language. Once 8 PM rolled around, they headed straight to one of their rooms together, seeking as much privacy as they could get.

Invisible strings began forming between them. Conversations plunged into the deep end. They had private jokes. They learned to recognize when something was wrong with the other just by looking at them. It was intense and deep and probably way too co-dependent, but it got him through. It kept his mind from going to darker places. It awoke something in him, some need he thought he had killed off.

He thought he was fine being alone. He told himself it wasn’t loneliness. All the best writers, artists, intellectuals were alone. To produce good work, you had to be isolated, shut up in a room, shut off from society for a while. You had to work at it. At every sentence, every word, every comma. But writing also meant living; telling the stories of your life, of the lives of others, the conversations you’ve had or overheard. It meant leaving your room, your safety zone. But even then, the writer is always an observer, a recorder separate from the group. Always on the outside, looking in.

There’s a saying that you remain the person you were in high school. This is true for Ben. In college, he could often be found in his dorm studying, reading, writing, listening to music. The few parties he had went to with a sort of naive hopefulness left him both fascinated and repulsed. He longed for inclusion yet felt proud of his inability to blend in. He didn’t even connect with other intellectuals or self-professed dorks/geeks/nerds, which should have been his people. He had one girlfriend in the entire four years, but that hadn’t even survived midterms.

Rey is the first person he ever felt he could be alone with, together.

**STOP**

At night now, he paces and paces and paces.

Thankfully he doesn’t have a roommate, which was likely Leia’s influence, so he’s free to pace or do sit-ups and push-ups. When he thinks of her skin, of how she tastes, how she smells—these are the times he does an extra set. When he thinks about her parents, or her foster father, or her good-for-nothing caseworker—he does an extra set. When he thinks about her being seventeen, out of reach—he does an extra set. Late at night, when he thinks about how she felt under him—he goes into the bathroom and jerks off, then takes a shower out of guilt, until he starts just combining the jerking off and shower together. He figures the staff that does half hour checks probably thinks he has a cleanliness complex.

**PLAY**

Time is meaningless.

It stretches on endlessly, it passes too quickly. It bends and distorts. Ben feels like he’s orbiting a black hole.

He sits alone at breakfast. He sits alone at lunch. He sits alone at dinner.

He goes to group. He drinks weak, lukewarm coffee—black with four sugars.

He reads during down time. He reads _Jane Eyre_ , _Mansfield Park_. He’s thankful _Lolita_ wasn’t one of the books Leia had brought.

He listens to music.

He walks around the grounds, following the endless loop like a hamster in a wheel.

A day passes.

Then a few more.

Then a week.

Then another.

Two and a half weeks go by before he’s handed discharge papers.

Outside the iron gate, Leia waits for him in her silver Audi, a silk scarf wrapped loosely around her hair and sunglasses covering half her face, looking very much like she does this sort of thing all the time.

*

The Solo House is a sprawling early 20th century Colonial Revival mansion located within the gated community of Chandrila, Maine. With marble columns, ivy crawling up the brick, and wide, manicured lawns, it looks as if it could be transported to the North Shore of Long Island, inside the pages of _The Great Gatsby._

Ben had never felt like he belonged here. Even as the son of a governor and race car driver, as part of the blue-blooded Organa and Naberrie lineage, as Chandrila royalty. He’s always felt more like the black sheep.

As Leia pulls up to the entrance, Ben tries to see the place through Rey’s eyes, wondering what she thought of it as she had first glimpsed the house and property from the long driveway. He hopes she wasn’t blinded by it, taken in by the brightness and effervesce of what is just as hollow as a champagne hangover.

Leia turns off the car. Looks over at him. Reaches over the console to hug him awkwardly. He counts down the seconds until it’s appropriate to pull away without hurting her feelings. It doesn’t escape his notice she hasn’t taken off her sunglasses, and he feels like there’s a metaphor in there somewhere.

*

Dinner is a colossal affair. There’s more food than Ben’s ever seen, even at Thanksgiving, spread out on the long mahogany table. A feast for the prodigal son, returned.

Leia sits at the head of the table. This position hadn’t changed with Han’s death; this was her usual seat, her standing in the family.

Ben sits at the other end, as far away from her as possible. Twelve feet.

“Where’s Rey?” are his first words to her since he’s gotten out.

Leia dabs the corners of her mouth with the cloth napkin folded upon her lap. “She’s with Amilyn, dear. She’ll be back soon.”

“Don’t trust her in the house?” Ben’s voice echoes down the table. “Afraid she’ll steal the silverware?”

Leia takes a sip of her wine, letting her son’s comments roll off her like the cabernet rolling on her tongue.

Ben doesn't eat, despite the temptations splayed before him, despite the weeks of hospital food. If he never saw a salisbury steak again, it would be too soon. Instead, he takes small, timed sips from his water, eyeing the wine carafe next to Leia’s glass, wondering if she’s confused _mental institution_ with _rehab._

*

Ben’s room has been shut up all these weeks like a mausoleum, and he airs it out with Joy Division. As the record spins, drum beats and bass lines drift into the hallway of the second floor like smoke.

He’s lying on his bed, sinking into the pleasure of a plush queen mattress, wondering how it is things could feel both _different_ and _the same_ , when he remembers his hiding stash.

He makes this way over to one of his bookshelves. Pulls out a hardcover tome of _The Beautiful and the Damned._ Inside its hollowed-out pages is a vacuum-sealed plastic baggie wrapped in a plastic baggie. Inside that is a bud of green and purple leaves and brown hairs, glinting with crystals. It’s at least seven weeks old, but it’s still sticky, still smells good. Flowery, not like the musty shit Poe used to bring over, full of stems and seeds.

Ben rolls a joint, then slides open his window, climbing out onto the roof.

It's a bitter cold night. It pierces through his hoodie like needles. He sits down at his usual spot, the cold from the shingles seeping through his jeans.

A click of the lighter. An orange flicker as he inhales deeply. Exhales a cloud that wisps up and away.

He feels lobotomized. Beautifully lobotomized.

Time bends and distorts again, but he doesn’t mind it so much now. It slows down, stretches ahead like an empty road. He tries to enjoy the ride, tries not to get detoured by things he shouldn’t be thinking about, things that will lock him into a pit of self-loathing and despair.

He thinks about Rey. About all the million little likes and dislikes and eccentricities that make her _her_ , that make up a person, like atoms.

He stares ahead at the flickering lights in the distance. Up at the stars in the clear night sky.

He wishes she was here.

Rey climbs out of the window. As she sits down next to him, she pulls her knees up and hugs them, wrapping the sleeves of her sweater around her fists. “Hey.”

Ben can see her breath as she exhales. She's really here. He smiles. “Hey yourself.”

“When did you get back?”

“About an hour ago. Maybe hour and a half.”

A silence settles in between them like another person.

“You missed dinner,” he points out the obvious, in order to have something to say.

“I did. What’d I miss?”

Ben pretends to think for a few seconds. “Hypocrisy and awkward, ill-timed displays of affection.”

Rey rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. “Oh. I thought it was supposed to be mushroom ravioli.”

“No, that’s tomorrow.”

“Ah.”

Another pause, but more comfortable this time. She reaches over and takes the joint, her fingers brushing his.

“I don’t know if I should be encouraging this,” he says, taking on a disapproving parental tone, one he probably learned from TV because he certainly never heard it from Han.

“I’ve smoked before.” She shrugs. “You’re not corrupting me.”

After she says this, it lingers in the air between them, awkwardly descending upon their shoulders. She puts the joint in between her lips, which he is not staring at.

“How are you liking it here?”

“I like it,” she says, passing the joint back. "I love it." Then, more quietly: “Maybe too much.”

“What do you mean?”

The only answer is her fingers brushing his again. They linger longer this time. He thinks she’s trying to pull the joint from his fingers, but she doesn’t, seemingly changing her mind halfway through. Then she’s crawling back into his room through the window.

He’s wondering whether or not he should go after her, was just about to stub out the embers on the shingles, when he hears the _zippp_ of the record player needle being pulled off the vinyl.

A few more seconds pass, then "I Wanna Be Sedated" by the Ramones plays. It bounces off the walls, instantly transforming the melancholic space.

“Cheeky,” he says, borrowing a word from her as he pokes his head in.

Rey's smile grows wider as she sits down upon his bed. It jostles it up and down for a few seconds, and in those few seconds he can't stop his brain from connecting it to sex. As she glances down at a book on top the blanket, strands of her hair fall from behind her ear and drift across her cheek, and he has a sudden, overwhelming instinct to push it away. His hands grip the wood of the window frame tighter.

"I have your tapes, by the way," he says.

Rey looks up. "Oh, right. Thanks. I've actually been having music withdrawal."

"You could have just borrowed my CDs."

"I wasn't about to go into your room or through your stuff when you weren't here."

Ben stubs out the remnants of the joint on the shingles, the orange tip of ash still burning as he crawls back inside. It doesn't escape his notice that as he pulls himself to his full height, Rey's eyes drift down his body, but then she's looking away and down at the carpet, a slight rosiness tinging her skin.

When he sits next to her again, there's precisely three inches between them. Neither close that space. But neither move away.

The song ends. There's a few seconds of static as it segues into the next.

Ben's suddenly not in the mood to listen to The Ramones anymore. Or anything really. Sometimes, when he’s smoked too much and he’s not in the best mental state, he gets locked in. Right now, being home again, everything feels crushing and surreal, which is only compounded by the pot. He never thought he'd see this house or this room again, and it’s overwhelming being here, back in his own private limbo. And even though he has his friend sitting next to him, who might actually be his best friend—his only friend, at this point—the distance feels far and he feels alone.

He gets up and pulls the arm off the vinyl, turning the knob off. As a creature of habit, he begins looking at the spines of his record collection, pretending to occupy himself even though he knows, deep down, he doesn't have to pretend around Rey.

"I lied," he hears her say from behind him, so quietly he almost didn't hear. "I actually did go into your room a few times."

"Oh?"

After a few moments pass and there's no answer, Ben turns back around to find Rey playing with a thread that had come loose from her sweater. When she finally looks up at him with her head still tilted down, she's worrying her bottom lip but her eyes are low-lidded, sultry.

"I might have even maybe slept in your bed once or twice."

Ben doesn't know what to say to this. He can't think, though his body is doing a good job taking over, blood rushing to his groin at the mental image of her in his bed, wrapped in his sheets, bare skin aglow. "Why?"

She shrugs one shoulder casually, but he knows it's an act. "I missed you. I wanted to be close to you."

"Rey—"

"Let me be close to you. Let me sleep here tonight."

" _Rey,_ " he sighs, bringing up a hand to rub at his eyes. He doesn't feel safe looking at her right now. Like Medusa, one look would undo him, only instead of stone he'll turn into fire, consuming her and whatever's left that's good. He's never had good impulse control, and with Rey sitting there giving him bedroom eyes and making her voice go low...

It's just the weed, he tells himself. He's just a little stoned right now and he always feels a little horny stoned. He'll take care of it after she leaves, and he won't think of her, not this time. Because in the hospital it was one thing... but now, with her living here under his care—okay, _Leia's_ care, but still—it has to end. She's seventeen. She's vulnerable, impressionable.

She's his foster sister now.

"You know, it's been a long day and I'm pretty tired," he says, still not looking at her. "I think I'm going to head to bed."

A long pause stretches on as neither move. Ben doesn't want her to move. But he also knows he has to end this. Cut this invisible cord.

"Goodnight, Rey."

The mattress springs creak as she gets up, the motes in the air shifting as she _whooshes_ past him, out the door.

*

Later that night, lying in the quiet blue-black darkness, he strokes himself to thoughts of her in his bed, so lonely, aching for him. Did she touch herself while tangled in his sheets? Did she chase his lingering scent as she imagined him doing things to her, things he's not even sure she knows about?

Does she even really want _him_ , or is this just a combination of teenage hormones and misplaced affection?

It doesn't matter.

After he comes, after his breath steadies and his limbs feel warm and heavy and relaxed, he swears he'll never think of her in that way again. He's just purging her out of his system, that's all. He's lonely. He hasn't had sex since things ended with Baz three months ago. And he does have a tendency to fixate. That's all this is.

The psychiatrist at the hospital would have a field day with this. He'd say he's focusing on Rey to avoid dealing with anything else in his life... regressing, or something like that. And then he'd recommend upping Ben's dosage and increasing the frequency of therapist appointments, and while he doesn't mind the therapy so much, he fucking hates taking pills. Antidepressants usually kill his sex drive, but clearly not what he's on now. Either that, or Rey's pull is just that strong and maybe he really is sick—very, very sick. He must be, because why else would he want someone who's still in high school? No matter how beautiful and mature and intelligent she is.

The sun rises an hour later.

Ben watches on the roof, his knees pulled up as the pale pinks and blues softly paint the horizon in the stillness of dawn. He watches black birds circle, listens to their chirping songs. There are no lights in the distance, only smoke quietly rising from chimneys and fading into the low fog.

He feels like he's the only person awake in the entire world. He pulls the cord of his hoodie down tighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anndd we’re out of the hospital! Part II, the bulk of the story, starts now. Really, the hospital was just a way for these two crazy kids to meet, who wouldn’t have otherwise. 
> 
> **Next chapter:** "Dreams" by The Cranberries


	7. Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled not to just quote the entirely of "Dreams." And because I cannot resist a good pun, this is also the Thanksgiving chapter.

_I want more, impossible to ignore_  
_Impossible to ignore…_  
  
_And now I tell you openly_  
_You have my heart so don’t hurt me_  
_You’re what I couldn’t find_  
_A totally amazing mind_  
_So understanding and so kind_  
_You’re everything to me_  
  
_Oh my life is changing every day_  
_In every possible way_  
_And oh my dreams_  
_It’s never quite as it seems_  
_‘Cause you’re a dream to me_  
_Dream to me_  
  
_“Dreams” by The Cranberries_

* * *

 

Thanksgiving is a foreign concept not only to the English, but to Rey.

In the entire ten years she’s been in America, ever since the foster family she was staying with at the time moved to Maine, she’s never had a proper Thanksgiving. She knows the general principles behind it, what it looks like from American films and television shows. There’s usually a turkey, stuffing, yams, mashed potatoes, a mishap of some sort, maybe even a fire. There’s a father watching a football game in a recliner and a mother slaving away in the kitchen, with oven mitts as hands. It’s a tableau straight out of a 1950s Sears catalogue.

At the Solo House, there’s no father and the mother is currently arguing on the phone with one of her aides. There’s no delicious smells wafting from the kitchen, which is cold and immaculate, as if nobody ever uses it, as if it’s just a set piece.

On this Thursday morning in 1998, Rey wakes up in a plush bed with soft, clean sheets that have a high thread count. She wakes up in a room she still can’t believe she gets to call her own. She pulls on an oversized flannel over black leggings, slips on the Doc Martens Leia bought her, and bounces down the stairs. Holidays feel different, like there’s something in the air. She follows the feeling down to the empty kitchen. To the silent living room.

Leia’s voice carries from another room. Rey can only hear snippets, like agreement, petition, desk, why didn’t you, that’s your job. Rey sits down on the couch, waiting for a few minutes before reaching over to grab the remote. She clicks on the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

Rey sinks into the couch, getting more relaxed as time passes by. She’s still not fully comfortable here, despite Leia going out of her way to make sure she knows she’s welcome. Then again, Rey’s never been fully comfortable anywhere. But out of all the places where she’s been uncomfortable, she’s been the _least_ uncomfortable here.

Half an hour passes, then forty-five minutes. Rey wonders if Ben’s up yet. He has the tendency to sleep late, to sleep at odd hours, though usually he’s up all night. Rey tries to stay up with him, but she’s used to getting up early for classes. She’s always been a morning person, anyway. It’s something she has in common with Leia. They have breakfast together every morning before Leia drops her off at her new school.

Ben’s been home for nearly a week now, yet Rey never sees him before she leaves. He never comes down for breakfast. Which is why it’s shocking to see him shamble into the living room with a mug of coffee. His hair is sticking out adorably in different directions.

“A rare sighting of Ben Solo before noon, outside of his natural habitat,” she narrates while miming a mic.

He smiles blearily over the rim of his mug. Before caffeine, he’s monosyllabic, even mute. He sits down on the couch next to her, but with a cushion between them. A respectable distance. The distance of friends, of foster siblings. Not two people who’ve made out twice. Even if it was weeks ago in the hospital.

Rey plucks the mug out of his hands, then takes a long sip.

“Brat,” he says, smiling. “There’s coffee in the kitchen, you know.”

“But it’s all the way on the other side of the mansion,” she gestures vaguely in the air. “Can you ring the bell and ask Jeeves to get it?”

Ben rolls his eyes. “If we’re going to have a fake butler, it’s _Alfred._ ”

Leia comes into the room. “So, bad news kids. Luke and Mara have decided to have Thanksgiving with one of their friends in California, and didn’t think to tell me until this morning.”

“Good.”

“Ben,” Leia warns, but there’s no real heart behind it, as if the subject is an endlessly spinning record that’s worn itself out.

“I’m glad we’re not going. Waste of time.”

Leia is rubbing her temple. “And I have to go down to the office to fix a filing error, so I don’t have time to go grocery shopping.”

“Thanksgiving is overrated, anyway,” Ben says, downing the last of the coffee. “It’s a white-washed celebration of the slaughter of indigenous people and the stealing of their lands, masquerading as a Kodak moment. As if this has ever been a real family.”

“ _Ben._ ” Leia nods towards Rey, who is resolutely watching the parade.

Ben shrugs. “Ask Lupe.”

“ _Lupe_ is spending the day with her _family._ ”

“Then order pizza.”

Leia sighs. “We’re not having pizza for Thanksgiving. We’re going to sit down as a family and have a traditional meal.”

“You can sit down with pizza, too.”

“ _Benjamin._ ”

Ben is looking at the TV, but Rey can tell he’s not watching it.

“I’m going to write you a shopping list.” Leia grabs a notepad and pen from the coffee table. “And by the time you get back, I should hopefully be done at the office.”

“With what car? I’m assuming you’re taking the Audi.”

Leia pauses. “Take the Camaro.”

Rey notices Ben shift in his seat, looking uncomfortable.

“Can’t we just order from Catalano’s?”

“Ben, please. This would really mean a lot to me.” Leia brings out the big guns. “It’s the first Thanksgiving without your father.”

The silence is loaded, echoing.

“Low blow,” Ben mutters. “But fine.”

“Thank you, Benjamin.” Leia doesn't look up from the notepad. “Why don’t you take Rey with you? It could be fun.”

“Oh yeah, a grocery store on the busiest day of the year. I’m sure Rey is just dying of excitement. Aren’t you Rey?”

Rey’s already felt uncomfortable since the beginning of this exchange, this peek behind the curtain into a family drama she has no role in. But now he’s dragging her into it.

“I don’t mind,” Rey says, to Leia. She’s not looking at Ben, secretly annoyed that he doesn’t seem to appreciate what he has right in front of him. What she wouldn’t give for arguments just like this.

Ben looks mildly betrayed. She ignores his stare, turning back to the colorful floats as they drift across the screen.

*

It’s a bright cold day, the sun illuminating all of the shriveled orange leaves on the ground. They crunch under Rey’s Doc Martens as she follows Ben to the garage. He’s silent the whole way.

As the garage door ascends, a cherry red Chevrolet Camaro comes into view. It catches the autumn light, gleaming. It’s love at first sight.

“Wow,” Rey breathes as she caresses the shimmering enamel paint, her hand trailing along the side.

“It was one of Han’s.”

“One of how many?”

Ben shrugs over the top of the car. He opens the door, folding himself into the driver’s seat, then leans over to unlock the passenger side door. Rey giddily climbs in.

“What year is this?”

“Uh…” Ben sighs, turning the key in the ignition. “1975? 76? Something like that.”

Ben takes a few minutes to adjust the seat, check and double-check the mirrors, and warm up the car, despite it having been stored in a heated garage. Rey is transfixed by the smoothness of it all—the leather seats, the glide of the car down the driveway and out onto the empty roads. It isn’t until they’re a few miles in that Rey looks over at Ben and notices his hands are shaking.

*

The parking lot is surprisingly empty, but that doesn’t stop Ben from parking as far away from the entrance as possible, all the way in Siberia.

R.E.M.'s "Losing My Religion" plays over the supermarket speakers as they move from aisle to aisle. Ben goes down the list as Rey pushes the cart, occasionally putting her feet up on the bottom and gliding a few feet. It feels comfortably domestic, and not for the first time, Rey wonders at how life can change so quickly, so drastically. One day, you’re living in a tiny room above a dilapidated garage, trying to shimmy locks off the food cabinets; the next, you’re living in a mansion and buying groceries with the practical prince of Chandrila.

There are no cranberries. Neither fresh ones nor the congealed glob in a can. There are no turkeys. There aren't even any Tofurkeys. The only items in their cart are a sack of potatoes and a can of creamed corn.

They’re just turning the corner into another aisle when their cart collides with another.

“I’m so sor—Ben?”

Rey looks between the woman and Ben, who seems to be doing his best impression of a deer in headlights.

The woman shakes her head. Her perfectly silky chestnut waves shimmy with her. “Ben, it’s so good to see you.”

Rey looks at Ben, who doesn’t seem to know where he is or what he’s doing. There’s a twitch under his left eye. She wonders if he’s having a stroke.

The woman glances over at Rey, but only for a second before her eyes are back on him. “And who’s this?”

He clears his throat. “A friend.”

Rey feels her entire body deflate, like a weight is pressing down. It was true, they never discussed what they were. And they hadn’t kissed since that day in the hospital. But still, Rey thought there was something more to this, to them. Unless… oh god, is he embarrassed of her?

“Well,” the woman says. “Nice to meet you, _Ben’s friend._ ” She doesn’t look at Rey. She doesn’t hold out her hand. She doesn’t introduce herself.

“Likewise,” Rey says.

Ben shifts his weight on his feet. There’s a long stretch as Ben and the woman stare at one another. Rey feels like she’s the third wheel in a silent conversation.

“I’ve been meaning to call,” the woman finally says aloud.

“Then why didn’t you.” Not a question. No upwards inflection.

“I didn’t know when you’d be home. Or if you’d even take my calls.”

Rey doesn’t know what to do, where to look. She picks up a random cereal box, flipping it over. Pretends to read the ingredients list.

“How’s Poe?” There’s an edge to Ben’s voice that Rey’s curious about.

“He’s fine.” There’s a pause before she adds, “I hear he’s fine.”

As Rey reads _red 40_ on a box of Fruit Loops, she tries to tune them out, but somehow it’s made even more intimate by only hearing their voices. She’s already felt incurably awkward since the beginning of this, but now she feels the undeniable need to escape. She longs for the smooth leather seats of the Camaro. For being alone with Ben again.

Rey sneaks a glance up at Ben, at the space between him and the woman. A tension hangs in the air as thick and cloying as perfume.

“Well…” the woman says, though the haze. “I have to get back to Nana’s with these marshmallows. Can you believe she forgot the most important ingredient in sweet potatoes?”

Ben doesn’t answer.

“Remember last year…” She begins to chuckle, flipping her hair. “When Aunt Patty brought _sushi_ and insisted it would be the new Thanksgiving food, and we had to—“

“Don’t.” Ben’s voice is hard. “Just… don’t.”

The woman’s smile fades. “Okay.” She nods. “Well, look, give me call sometime. I’d love to catch up.”

They continue to stare at one another for a few more seconds. Then she’s pushing her cart again, but slowly, as if she’s waiting for him to stop her.

He doesn’t.

As soon as she slips around the corner, Ben’s barreling down the aisle, not even waiting for Rey. She abandons the cart, the potatoes and creamed corn, to follow him outside. She catches up to him halfway across the parking lot.

“What was that about?” She’s trying to sound nonchalant, like she’s merely curious and not at all insanely jealous, but it’s difficult when she’s slightly out of breath.

“Nothing.” He opens the driver’s side door.

“Who was that?”

“Nobody.” He starts the engine. Checks the mirrors again. Cranks down the window. Lights a cigarette. “Bazine.”

Rey’s never heard that name before. Not in the countless conversations they’ve had in the hospital or since he’s been home. Why has she never heard that name before? She feels betrayed, as if he’s been keeping something from her. Something that is clearly important enough to abandon groceries.

The car is running, but they’re not going anywhere.

“Do you want me to drive?” Rey asks, after sitting there in silence for a few minutes as he puffs away.

“Do you even have a license?”

“I do.” Rey rolls her eyes, his attitude rubbing off on her. She feels defensive, like he thinks she’s a child. “I had to drive Plutt home when he’d get drunk, remember?”

Ben nods, but it’s a distracted nod, as if he’s not really listening. He’s looking out the window.

“Let me drive,” Rey insists with as much grown-up authority as she can. “At least this way, we can actually listen to music.”

Ben snaps his head to her. “We can listen to music when I drive.”

“Oh. Well, you looked… I hadn’t wanted to distract you. Before.”

Ben just stares at her, an indecipherable look on his face. Rey pushes his shoulder, silently urging him to get out out of the car. After a few moments, he does so, albeit reluctantly. As if he’s already regretting this.

Rey slides over to the driver’s seat. She adjusts the seat and mirrors, but with more confidence than Ben. He slumps in the seat next to her, slamming the door with more force than necessary.

Rey turns on the radio as she pull out onto the road. “Dreams” by The Cranberries floats through the car, out into the crisp air whooshing past them. Rey’s hair is drifting all over the place, across her face and into her eyes, and she wishes she brought a hair tie. She glances over at Ben, at his own black waves in the rushing air. He looks more relaxed now, but he’s still quiet, still Mr. Broody.

Rey turns the knob all the way to the right as the song hits a crescendo. Ben finally looks over at her.

He smiles.

*

They end up going to two more supermarkets and one bodega before finally calling it quits on Leia’s list. They managed to get a few items, but they’re only random ingredients of numerous recipes. Rey suggests throwing them all together in a pot and seeing what comes out. Ben responds that it wouldn’t be any different than Leia’s usual cooking.

They’re almost home when Ben directs her to veer off on an unfamiliar road. She does so without hesitation, following it down to the waterfront. She pulls over, turns off the car. They have styrofoam cups of gas station coffee in the cup holders, and she takes a sip as she waits for Ben to say something, do something.

“That was my ex,” he says, looking out at the waves crashing on the rocks.

Rey nods, even though he can’t see it. She figured as much.

“She hooked up with my best friend. Poe.”

“I’m sorry.”

Ben shrugs. “It’s okay. I really don’t care anyway.”

Rey wonders if this is true. “Is that way you’ve been so…” She trails off, struggling to think of the right word.

Ben shakes his head. “It’s more than that.” He takes a long sip of his coffee. Rey mimics him in a silent support of solidarity.

“I didn’t spend last Thanksgiving with him. I spent it with Baz. It was one of the rare times he had come home.” Ben lights another cigarette. “He had begged me to spend it with him and Leia. That he didn’t know how much longer…” His voice cracks.

Without even thinking about it, Rey reaches over and strokes his shoulder, his back.

“I’m sorry.” He swipes his face, looking out the window, away from her.

“ _Ben._ ”

A few minutes pass in silence as Ben smokes and sips at the coffee that’s long gone cold and was never any good anyway. Rey’s hand rubs circles on his clothes the entire time, occasionally brushing over the collar onto his skin. He doesn’t shake it off. But he doesn’t embrace her, either. He stays in the passenger seat, contained in his own world where there doesn’t seem to be room enough for two.

*

By the time they make it home, the sun is already setting. It pours molten gold through the half-bare trees as Rey pulls into the garage.

Rey turns off the car. Looks over at Ben. “Thanks for letting me drive.”

“Thanks for letting me vent.”

“Thanks for letting me grab the apple cider.”

“Thanks for not correcting that _cider_ is alcoholic in your part of town.”

“I was thinking it.”

“I know.” Ben smirks. He leans his head against the headrest and looks over at her in a way that Rey thinks must be deliberate, because she’s never wanted to kiss him more.

A lock of black hair falls in front of his eye. Rey reaches over and smoothes it back, her hand lingering. A few moments pass as their eyes remain locked. She wants him to lean over. She wants him to kiss her. She wants him to… She wants him to do many things.

Ben seems to shake himself out of this spell, the one Rey is still under. He inhales deeply, grasping the door handle. “Shall we?”

They make their way inside to find Leia sitting at the kitchen counter, her glasses perched low on her nose, absorbed in paperwork. A brown paper bag is sitting next to her.

“I picked up Chinese,” Leia says without looking up.

“Did you get egg rolls?” Ben's already shifting though the contents of the bag.

“Of course.” Leia smiles. She looks up at Rey, pulling her glasses off. “I’m so sorry, dear. I wanted to have a traditional Thanksgiving for you.”

Rey smiles widely as she accepts an egg roll from Ben. “No, it’s perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ^the author
> 
> Lupe is stolen from Arrested Development. I kidnapped her.
> 
> Also, how many My So-Called Life references did I squeeze in there? I have no self-control.
> 
>  **Next chapter** : "Low" by Cracker


	8. The Cosmonaut

_Hey hey don't you want to go down_  
_Like some junkie cosmonaut_  
_A million miles below their feet_  
_A million miles, a million miles_  
  
_I'll be with you girl_  
_Like being low_  
_Hey hey hey like being stoned_  
_I'll be with you girl_  
_Like being low_  
_Hey hey hey like being stoned_  
  
_“Low” by Cracker_

* * *

 

The record player is spinning as Ben and Rey lie on the carpet in his room.

They’re in opposite directions, staring up at the ceiling as they pass a joint back and forth. Time is slow and hazy, like the fog that’s descended outside has seeped into the room through the cracks.

Ben has the vague sense of corrupting Rey, of being a bad influence, like the kind they warn students about in After School Specials produced by D.A.R.E., or in a sitcom’s Very Special Episode. He feels like he should be wearing a motorcycle jacket and flipping a coin against a wall.

Rey passes the joint back to him, her long, lean arm stretching out overhead. Smoke swirls above them, illuminated in the gray light of the rainy afternoon. The drizzle pitter-patters against the windows, blurring everything outside like an impressionist painting.

“I drove a car off a cliff,” Ben says, after some time has passed. How much, he isn’t sure, but the light is dimmer than before.

“I whacked Plutt in the face with a metal bar,” Rey responds.

“I wrecked the Falcon. It’s lying in a heap on the bottom of the Atlantic. Barnacles are probably growing on it as we speak.”

“He threw away my plate of food. I just lost it. Thankfully he didn’t get the cops involved. But that’s probably because he’s cooking the books at his shop.”

“The funny part is, I was more upset at losing all of my tapes in the car than the car itself. That was my first thought. Like, ‘Oh shit, I don’t have _Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness_ on vinyl.’ Or even CD. Just on tape.”

“Can’t you just go down to the record store and get it?” Rey’s looking at him now.

“Yeah, but that’s not the point.”

“We can go now. I’ve been meaning to pick up Neutral Milk Hotel’s _In the Aeroplane Over the Sea_.”

“I don’t think I can drive right now.”

“Bus?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever taken the bus,” Ben admits sheepishly.

Rey laughs. “It’ll be fun. Like an adventure.”

Ben raises a disbelieving eyebrow. “Right, I think that’s enough weed for you.” He snuffs out the joint in the ashtray above their heads.

“Come on, Prince Solo. I’ll even buy you pizza.”

Ben considers it. “Pizza does sound really good right now.”

“With anchovies.”

“…Nevermind.”

“With _pineapple_ and anchovies.”

Ben shakes his head. “You’ve done it. You’ve actually discovered a way to kill the munchies.”

Rey laughs as she rolls over to her side to face him, leaning her head on one arm. “I’ll let you lecture me about music.”

“I prefer to call it ‘educating.’ Not that you really need it that much.”

Rey places a hand on her chest. “That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me, Ben Solo.”

The corner of Ben’s mouth quirks up. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Mayonnaise and pineapple and anchovies,” Rey says in retaliation.

“Should’ve left you at the hospital.”

Rey punches his arm.

*

In his entire lifetime, in all the years he’s lived in Chandrila, Ben’s never taken any form of public transportation. The idea is as foreign to him as flying cars and jetpacks. He realizes just how spoiled it makes him, that he’s always had a car to drive, or a personal driver before he got his license, because Leia never was able to drop him off or pick him up from school. Han had picked him up a few times in one of his vintage cars, but Ben never liked the attention. It was bad enough to be the son of a politician, but to be the son of a popular, famous race car driver, when he himself was so awkward and gangly and very much unpopular, was too much. It was embarrassing to see kids throw themselves at his father, practically in front of the windshield. Ben was always tempted to turn on the wipers.

Rey, on the other hand, navigates bus and train and subway routes like a city native. She has an air of worldliness that he definitely hadn’t possessed at seventeen. She seems to know where to go without even consulting a map, even through the lingering haze.

They sit together on the Hanna City East Line, the city blurring past them in a kaleidoscope of neon signs and streetlamps in the blue-gray December afternoon. The elevated train swoops low underneath the city as it plunges into a tunnel. Ben looks over at Rey the entire time, at her reflection as she stares out the window. Lights in the car flicker on, off. On, off.

Being on the subway for a while feels like being on a submarine. They ascend the stairs with wobbly sea legs and break the surface into the bustling heart of downtown.

“First Order Records, or Resistance?” Rey asks.

“First Order,” Ben says, without hesitation. “They have a better selection.”

The look on her face doesn’t go unnoticed.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says. “I just didn’t take you for being so… corporate.”

Ben laughs. “Oh, to be seventeen again. ” He laughs even harder at her answering scowl.

*

Resistance Records is located in the Village, in a tiny space underneath a dry cleaner. If you don’t know exactly where it is, you won’t be able to find it. It’s the kind of place that’s popular because it’s so obscure. It’s the best place to find rare albums and local bands. It’s so underground, it’s subterranean.

Ben and Rey descend the concrete stairs covered in graffiti. He holds the door open for her, his hand naturally falling to her lower back to guide her in. He instantly drops it as soon as he realizes what he’s doing.

Walking into Resistance is like walking onto a film set. Something low-budget and campy but stylish, destined to become a cult classic. Strains of “Atomic” by Blondie float from the speakers in the back, where there’s folding tables and milk crates. It weaves past shoppers with mohawks and pins on their jackets, down aisles of vinyl, cassettes and CDs. Neon lights glow against band posters covering every inch of the walls.

Ben and Rey diverge, an aisle between them, their hands trailing over the tops of the vinyl as they glide at the same speed. Soon they’re stopping, flipping, then gliding again, lost in the titles and cover art. Every once in a while, one of them will look up, sometimes catching the eye of the other, sometimes not.

Ben holds up the vinyl of Neutral Milk Hotel’s _In the Aeroplane Over the Sea._

Rey shakes her head. “I don’t have a record player. I’m looking for that on CD.”

“You can use mine,” he says. He looks down again, flipping through a new stack. “Or I can just buy you one.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not.” Ben shrugs.

“I appreciate it. Really. But I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

Rey gives him an exasperated look. “It’s way too expensive. And you and your mum have already done so much.”

“There’s nothing wrong with accepting things, Rey. You deserve it. You deserve more than you realize.”

Rey has an indescribable expression on her face as she stops what she’s doing and stares at him, her lips slightly parted. Ben finds he can’t maintain eye contact for some reason. He sets to busying himself with a new stack, flipping through slowly as if he’s looking for a particular title.

The music changes. “Ever Fallen in Love (With Someone You Shouldn’t’ve)” by the Buzzcocks cheerily plays throughout the small space. Ben makes his way to the counter with the Neutral Milk Hotel album, along with a Joy Division compilation album from ’81 called _Still._ The clerk rings up the purchases on an old, beat-up cash register under a hanging sign that says “CASH ONLY.” He hands Ben a brown paper bag, along with a neon pink flyer with xeroxed art advertising a local punk show.

When Ben and Rey emerge, it’s snowing.

The sky is a blanket of white. Snowflakes fall silently and softly down, landing on the shoulders of their wool coats, on individual strands of hair. It’s the first snowfall of the season.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Rey says, twirling. “I don’t want pizza. I want hot chocolate.”

“That’s it?”

“With whipped cream, obviously.”

“ _Obviously._ ”

“And pancakes. And home fries.”

“Well, I think there’s—“

“And scrambled eggs.”

Ben smiles. “I think there’s a diner not too far from here.”

They walk two and a half blocks west, closer together now that it’s grown colder. Rey occasionally holds out her hand to capture snowflakes. Every time she lifts her arm, Ben thinks for half a second that she’s reaching for his hand.

*

Empire Diner is a 1950s landmark, all neon and chrome. Ben slides into the cracked vinyl seats, shrugging off his coat as Rey does the same across from him. He watches her as she stares out the window, at the snow and cars whooshing by. Ben orders a coffee while Rey orders a hot chocolate. The coffee is so burnt that Ben pours three creamers into it.

Rey steals a sip of his coffee, then scrunches up her nose. “I don’t know why you'd drink that over hot chocolate.”

“It’s something to do with the mugs, I think.” He shrugs. “I love diner mugs. It makes even shitty coffee taste good.”

They fall into a comfortable silence as they nurse their drinks. Soon, Rey’s chocolate chip pancakes arrive, along with a plate of home fries, scrambled eggs and buttered toast. Ben shakes his head in wonder over his cheeseburger and fries. As they dig in, it occurs to him that this could be a date, in another universe.

On the way out, Ben pretends not to see her buy him a mug with the diner logo emblazoned on it at the front counter.

*

They sit together on the Hanna City West Line. Ben looks over at Rey the entire time as she stares out the window. Just as she catches his eye through the reflection, the lights flicker off for a full five seconds, plunging the car into darkness with only the orange lights of the tunnel whizzing past.

When the train emerges above the city, it’s dusk.

*

Half an hour and one bus transfer later, Ben and Rey are stomping their feet on the welcome mat in the foyer of the Solo House.

“There you two are,” Leia calls from the couch in the living room. “Are you hungry?”

“No, we already ate,” Ben responds as he hangs up his coat.

“Well, I was about to watch _It’s A Wonderful Life_ , if you want to join me.”

“Mom, it’s December 5th.”

“At least I waited until December this year,” Leia responds with a smile, thankfully not commenting on the fact he called her “mom.”

“That’s true.” Ben turns to Rey. “She was watching it before Thanksgiving last year. Maybe even around Halloween.”

Rey smiles as she removes her boots, padding her way across the tile into the carpeted living room. She flops onto the couch next to Leia, who hands her an afghan blanket. Rey happily burrows herself into it. Ben rolls his eyes before joining them.

The movie is paused halfway through for a break. Everyone congregates in the kitchen. Leia pours herself another glass of red wine. Rey boils milk in a saucepan to make hot chocolate. Ben waits for the microwave to stop spinning as he pops popcorn.

The telephone in the hallway rings. Leia goes to pick it up, disappearing for a few seconds before she’s back, the spiral cord only reaching a few inches into the kitchen.

“Ben, it’s for you.”

“Who is it?”

“Bazine Netal.”

Ben goes back to staring at the glass turntable inside the microwave. “Tell her I’m not here.”

Leia gives him _a look_. “I already told her I’d go and get you. Besides, she can probably hear you.”

Ben closes his eyes and sighs, counting to five before pushing away from the counter. He grabs the phone from Leia, avoiding Rey’s eyes, though he can feel them burning a hole into his back.

“What do you want?” he hisses into the receiver as soon as he’s in the privacy of the hall.

“Well hello to you, too,” Bazine responds in a cheery voice, as if this is some game. Just a way they greet one another.

“Seriously, Bazine. I’m busy.”

“I just wanted to see if you wanted to go to a small get-together tonight.”

“Where?” he asks, though he doesn’t know why. Curiosity?

“At Mitaka’s. It’ll be fun."

Ben remembers the parties at Mitaka’s. The kegs, the sea of red Solo cups. The shitty music. “No thanks.”

“Oh come on, you used to have fun.” She pauses before adding, “ _We_ used to have fun.”

“Did we?” Ben’s leaning against the wall.

“I thought we did.” There’s another pause. Some noise in the background. “Come on. I promise not to leave you alone.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Come on Solo. You know you want to.” There’s a teasing, a flirtation in her voice that he’s not entirely comfortable with, yet he starts to feel drawn in, just like old times. She reminds him of a siren, luring sailors to their watery deaths.

“Why don’t you bring Poe?”

“Oh, that’s over. God, that’s _so_ over.”

Ben sighs. Runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe another time.”

“Promise?”

“No.” He can practically feel her pout through the telephone wires.

“But that’s a definite _maybe_?”

He’s silent for a long moment, considering. “I got to go, Baz.”

“Okay, okay. See ya around, Solo.” She says it like she means it. Like it's not even a definite maybe, but a yes.

Ben hangs up, hoping Rey was too distracted by Leia and hot chocolate and feel-good thoughts of Christmas and Hallmark family moments to overhear him.

*

Later that night, Ben’s smoking on the roof, for once not listening to music. The snow is still falling softly down, and he finds himself not wanting to disturb the silence it brings. It doesn’t stick, disappearing into wet clumps on the dark and rough shingles. He keeps expecting to see Rey climbing out of the window at any moment. He both wants her to join him, and doesn’t.

He doesn't know what to do. She’s _seventeen._ He’s twenty-six. She's his foster sister, for fuck's sake. She should be with someone her own age. And he should be with someone his own age. Someone like Baz. No, not Baz, but someone. But then again, maybe he deserves to be with someone like Baz. Rey's too good for him. And even if... no, he’d just fuck it up, just like everything else. He needs to get over this, whatever this is. A crush. Just a crush. It’ll pass, just like everything else. It’s nothing.

Later, at around 3 AM, when he picks up his Moleskine notebook and pen for the first time in months, he thinks, _Then why does it feel like everything?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Thanks so much to [Semperfidani](http://semperfidani-blog.tumblr.com/) for the moodboard!
> 
> I struggled not to make “Ever Fallen in Love (With Someone You Shouldn’t’ve)” by the Buzzcocks the main chapter song. But I wanted to start with "Low" by Cracker as the song they're listening to on the floor, as well as the overall theme of low and high. Being low: depression/tunnels/subways/underground record store. Being high: stoned/love/elevated train/rooftops/cosmonaut/ _Aeroplane over the Sea_. Do I think too much? Most definitely.
> 
> Comments = *black heart emoji*
> 
>  **Next chapter** : "Tonight, Tonight" by the Smashing Pumpkins


	9. The Wine-Dark Deep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been over two weeks since I last updated, but here's an extra long chapter! Twice as long as usual.
> 
> I introduce an original character called Jamie Murphy. Just imagine a younger Jamie Dornan, circa _Marie Antoinette._

_Time is never time at all_  
_You can never ever leave_  
_Without leaving a piece of youth_

_And our lives are forever changed_  
_We will never be the same_  
_The more you change the less you feel_

_Believe in me as I believe in you_

_“Tonight, Tonight” by the Smashing Pumpkins_

* * *

 

Rey’s sitting in fourth period English, half-listening to Mr. Katimski drone on about _The Odyssey_ as she doodles in the margins of her notebook, when a note is dropped on her desk.

She look arounds, not sure where it came from. If it’s for her, or if she’s meant to pass it.

As she unfolds it gingerly, words swim out. There, in between college-ruled lines, in a mix of different inks, cursive and print:

_Reyanne Johnson + Jamie Murphy had sex!!!_

_OMG! No way!_

_I don’t believe it. He’s too good for her._

_who’s that?_

_the new girl_

Mr. Katimski’s walking up and down the aisles, his glasses perched low on his nose as he reads from a well-worn paperback, heavily annotated with colorful post-its.

_“‘Yet even so, I wish and long day by day to fare homeward and see the day of my returning. Yea, and if some god shall wreck me in the wine-dark deep, even so I will endure, with a heart within me patient of affliction.’”_

The air in the room is heavy as Rey folds the note back and looks down, feeling the weight of a thousand eyes on her.

_“‘For already have I suffered full much, and much have I toiled in perils of waves and war. Let this be added to the tale of those.’”_

The sound of a chair scraping on the linoleum floor. Rey grabs her backpack slung over her chair, her book and notebook from her desk, pressed tightly against her chest. Her pencil has fallen to the floor, is rolling down the aisle and underneath other seats, and she’s not going to pick it up, Leia bought her plenty of pencils and pens and she doesn’t have to worry about that anymore and she needs to get out of here because everyone is looking at her.

As she pushes the door open into the safe emptiness of the hallway, she hears “Reyanne?” follow her. But she doesn't even know who that is, not really, because she’s never gone by that name. It’s like an entirely different person—one who sits alone at lunch and in the back of the class. Who gets referred to as “the weird, quiet girl” while just sketching and eating a sandwich. She had thought it would be different here. But now, as she pushes open the door of the girls’ second-floor bathroom, she comes to the realization that high school is the exact same everywhere.

Rey throws her backpack down into the corner and stares at the wall, breathing heavily.

“Are you okay?”

Rey jumps. Whips around.

A girl. Short. Black hair in a pony tail with fringe. Red-framed glasses. A hoodie over a Legends of Zelda tee shirt.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Rey says on autopilot.

“Are you sure? Because I could go get the nurse for you if you need me to.”

“I’m fine.” Rey bites out, then winces at her own harsh tone. “Thank you,” she adds, smiling in what she hopes is in a convincing way.

The girl smiles brightly in return. “Oh wow, I know you!” she says breathily. “You’re Reyanne Johnson, right?”

Rey’s smile falters. Oh god, how many people have read the note? Is it all over school?

“It’s Rey. Just Rey.”

“Wow! You have a British accent! I’ve seen your art! I have Ms. Bailey for art seventh period, and she has some of your paintings on the wall with your name under it. When I first saw the one of the man underneath the autumn tree, I said to myself, ‘Rose, that’s an artist.’”

Rey blushes, both unused to compliments and because she knows exactly which painting Rose is referring to. “Thank you.”

Rey turns around, catching her reflection for a blurry second before leaning over the porcelain sink that hasn’t been updated in decades. She then twists the squeaky metal knob in order to have something to do. As the water gushes out, she cusps it in her hands. Splashes it on her face. It’s arctic cold. The crisp shock of it calms her down as her cheeks and nose go slightly numb.

Rose stares at her through the mirror, but just before it starts to get uncomfortable, she’s grabbing a wad of brown paper towels and handing them to her.

“Thanks.” Rey blots her face with the rough paper.

“Oh! I totally forgot to introduce myself! I’m Rose. Rose Tico.” She sticks out her hand, confident and certain.

Rey’s not usually one for touch, not having had much experience with it growing up. But as she clasps Rose’s warm hand and shakes once, twice—she can’t help but smile back, genuinely this time. “Nice to meet you, Rose.”

“Nice to meet you too, Rey!”

Rose jumps up on the table above the radiator, the window framing her with hazy yellow light through frosted glass. Rey goes back to staring at her reflection, at her pale and clammy skin, her cheeks and nose pink from the cold. Stray wisps of hair stick damply to her face. There are water droplets on her eyelashes.

“So now that we know each other, do you mind if I ask you something?”

“Sure. Why not.” Rey watches herself say through the mirror.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Rey watches her eyes water of their own accord, like Rose’s plucked a tight metal string behind her nose and eye sockets. She doesn’t trust herself to speak.

There’s a short silence before the sound of rummaging fills the empty bathroom. Rey looks over at Rose, who pulls out a black plastic-looking brick from her backpack.

“Do you need me to taze someone?” Rose looks serious. Very, very serious.

Rey bursts out laughing. “Bloody hell! Why do you have a taser?”

“You never know when you might need it.” She shrugs. “And it beats pepper spray.”

“Or a whistle.”

Rose beams. “Exactly!”

“You sort of look like a secret agent right now.” Rey’s now facing Rose, leaning backwards against the sink.

“Maybe I am! Maybe I’m undercover as a high school student.”

“Well then, maybe you can find out whoever’s making up lies about me.”

Rose grows serious again. Her eyebrows scrunch up as she frowns. “What kind of lies?”

Rey shrugs. “About Jamie Murphy and me.”

“Jamie Murphy?” She tilts her head. “One of the most popular guys in school?”

“Yeah.” Rey looks down, playing with the sleeve of her flannel. “Someone was passing around a note claiming we’ve had sex.”

“Why would someone do that?”

“I’ve no idea! He’s my lab partner for Bio, but we’ve barely spoken two words to each other outside of ‘Do you want to fill out the sheet, or should I?’” Rey turns back around. Turns the faucets on and off. “The only time I’ve even seen him outside of class was to give him the lab notes he missed while sick the other day.”

“Where was this?”

“Um, around the bleachers?”

Rose’s face lights up. “Was this around the time of basketball practice?”

“Yeah, right after school.”

“AHA!” Rose jumps down, waving her taser in the air. Rey eyes it cautiously.

“What?”

“Kaydel is his girlfriend, right? Or ex, I don’t know. They break up, like, every few days.” Rose rolls her eyes. “They have more drama than Julia and Griffin.”

“Oh, are they seniors too?”

“Julia and Griffin! From Party of Five?” There’s a short pause before Rose is waving a hand in the air. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you caught up on that later. Anyway, there’s cheerleading practice at the same time as basketball practice, right? And Kaydel is the head cheerleader.”

“So… you think she saw me?”

Rose nods. “And got super jealous, because she is, like, totally the jealous type. She breathes fire whenever Jamie even looks at another girl.”

“It’s not like that.” Rey shakes her head. “He doesn’t like me like that.”

“Do _you_ like him like that?”

“No,” Rey says. “He’s… not my type.”

“So what is your type?”

Rey catches a glimpse of herself blushing in the mirror. “I don’t know.” She shrugs. “The broody type? With dark hair. And eyes. Someone who reads a lot. And does calligraphy. With good taste in music.”

Rose smirks. “But nobody in particular, right?”

“What about you? Anyone you _like_ -like?”

Now it’s Rose’s turn to blush. “Okay, but you have to promise not to tell anyone, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Swear?”

Rey crosses her heart over the breast pocket of her oversized flannel. “I swear.”

“Finn Storm,” Rose whispers, even though there’s nobody else in the bathroom, and hasn’t been ever since Rey came in.

“I don’t think I know him.”

“You should totally meet him! There’s auditions today after school, if you want to hang out with us.”

“Oh, for the school play? What’s it again?”

“ _Hamlet._ ” Rose touches up her lip gloss in the mirror. “Pretty much every girl is going for Ophelia, all because Alex Porter is playing Hamlet. There's not even a kiss! But try telling them that. Anyway, I don’t even want to be in the play. I’m going to do set design! Props.”

“Is Finn doing that too?”

“He’s the stage manager. We’re in drama club together.” Rose caps her lip gloss, putting it back into the front pocket of her backpack. She suddenly swivels around to face her. “Oh my gosh! You should totally audition for Ophelia!”

The bell rings. Rey shakes her head.

“Come on, it’ll be fun!”

Rey shakes her head harder as she picks up her backpack in the corner. Swings it over one shoulder. As they push open the bathroom door, a group of girls walk in, giving Rey the side-eye as they whisper among themselves.

Rose waves her taser at them as they walk past. Presses a button that makes a buzzing sound, causing the girls to shriek and scatter.

*

Rey’s in art eighth period, her final class of the day, using ink and markers to draw Rose with her red glasses and taser, framed by graffiti on the yellow bathroom walls, when she happens to look up at one of her paintings on the wall. The one of Ben underneath their chestnut tree.

The placard under it has been vandalized—the name “Reyanne” crossed out in big, black Sharpie lines, replaced with “Rey.”

*

All different cliques, from Freshmen to Seniors, are grouped off in pockets all around the auditorium. It was just like lunch, only there wasn’t any food.

Rey wishes there was food.

“Hey, is this seat taken?”

Rey glances up from where she is sitting alone in the back, into the kind face and sparkling dark eyes of someone she feels like she already knows. She smiles. “No. I’m just waiting on a friend.”

“Cool.” He smiles back widely, sitting down next to her. “I’m Finn, by the way.”

“I’m Rey.”

Just then, Rey spots Rose waving excitedly by the stage before practically skipping up the aisle. Finn waves back.

“Oh! You’re Finn Storm!”

“Yeah.” He nods. “Do I know you?”

“Hey guys!” Rose slips into the seat next to Finn, her overstuffed backpack falling heavily to the floor.

“Hey Rose,” Finn says before turning back to Rey. “Do we have a class together?”

“Oh no, I just heard about a lot about you.”

Finn looks puzzled. “Oh yeah? What about?”

Rose’s eyes go wide behind him.

“Just that you’re _amazing_ at props. Right Rose?” Rey smiles.

Rose’s face turns as red as her glasses. “Right!”

Finn still looks confused, but he takes the compliment. “Thanks! I’m actually planning on going for a B.F.A. in Drama after we graduate. I just finished my application for NYU.”

“I applied to NYU, too.” Rose beams at him. “And Columbia!” she quickly adds. “And a couple other colleges. In other cities. Not just New York.”

Rey bites her lip to keep herself from giggling as Finn nods enthusiastically at Rose.

“What about you, Rey?” He turns back to her. “What colleges have you applied to?”

Rey’s smile begins to slip off her face before she catches it and arranges it back on. “Oh, I’m still figuring that out.”

“Well, you better hurry. Deadlines are in like, two months.”

Rey nods, then turns back to the xeroxed copy of _Hamlet_ in her lap that was handed out earlier. Finn turns back to Rose, where they spend the next ten minutes getting lost in private jokes and reminiscences the way old friends do. They make efforts to include Rey here and there, but they’re always afterthoughts.

Rey finds herself missing Ben.

In moments of solitude, even when surrounded by a sea of people, her thoughts always drift to him.

*

One week later—two days before Christmas Eve and one day before the Winter Break—the casting list is posted on the auditorium door.

A crowd forms around it. Some walk away happy, others disappointed. Some just walk away, already acting, whether or not they’re in the play.

Rey scans down the list. Finds her name. Traces her finger over the dots.

Rey Johnson...........................................Ophelia

Rose hugs her as Finn pats her on the back. Both are beaming.

*

When Rey gets home, the first thing she does is put on a dress.

It’s not Elizabethan-era, but it’ll do. It’s a navy blue button-up with printed maroon and gray flowers. It begins with short sleeves and a plunging neckline that rests just above the modest swell of her breasts, and ends just above her knees. It’s flowing and light and makes her feel like a goddess walking on air. She pairs it with black leggings and Doc Martens to weigh her down. A modern Ophelia.

In the bathroom, she puts on the make-up Leia bought her on a shopping spree a few weeks back, even though she hardly ever wears it. It’s not that she doesn’t like make-up; she’s just always felt like a little kid playing with it. But today, she carefully applies a red lipstick called “Crimson Glow” and attempts a smoky eye based off of a model in _Seventeen_ magazine, poking her eye with the kohl pencil and smearing the mascara more than once. But for the first time ever, when she looks at herself in the mirror, she doesn’t see an orphan or a garbage girl or a scavenger. She doesn’t see Reyanne or even Just Plain Rey. She sees someone else, someone new.

She thinks maybe she could even be pretty. 

Rey recites her lines while gliding all around her room, her script rolled in one hand while the other gestures vaguely but gracefully. She imagines a career as an actress.

It had all started with a school production of _Hamlet_ , she would say in interviews between the rise and fall of velvet curtains.

*

Ben misses dinner.

This isn’t usual, as Ben is a hermit. He stays up all night, writing or pacing or smoking, music sometimes straying softly from his record player into the hallway and under her door like smoke drifting into her room. Then he must switch to headphones, because there’s long periods of silence. But still he lingers around her.

Rey spends as much time with him as possible between coming home from school, homework, and going to bed at a reasonable hour. The past week, though, she’s hardly seen him. Part of it’s on her, as she’s been hanging out with Rose and Finn. But the past few times she’s gotten home before six, he’s been out.

Where does he go?

Tonight, Ben doesn’t get home until 1:30 in the morning.

Despite the weight of his presence and his lanky and muscular frame, he can be a light walker when he wants to be. An expert in sneaking in since 1987. But Rey can hear him. She’s attuned to his body, his movements, even when lying still in her dark bedroom, staring up at the ceiling, at the patches of moonlight shimmying through the shadows of bare trees.

She hears his bedroom door open slowly. Close softly.

Music wanders.

*

The next day at school is the last day before Winter Break. There’s an excitement in the air, like waiting for the first snowfall.

Rey and Rose and Finn are walking side-by-side, flinging open the heavy iron doors and scampering down the front steps. They’re practically skipping by the time they reach the parking lot.

They’re about to pile into Finn’s sedan, with its ripped leather seats and spray-painted hood, when—

“Reyanne?”

Rey turns, coming face to face with Jamie Murphy.

“Hey,” he says, smiling. Rey has seen him smile before, but it was never directed to her.

“Hey,” Rey replies hesitantly, suspiciously. The passenger-side back door is open, and she has one arm leaning on it.

Finn is already behind the wheel, arguing with Rose in the passenger seat about what music to put on. _Sexual tension_ , Rey had explained to Rose earlier in the first-floor bathroom.

“I just wanted you to know that I didn’t have anything to do with that note.”

Rey rolls her eyes. “And it took you a week to tell me this?”

“I only just found out about the whole thing.” He gestures vaguely towards the school. “And you’ve switched seats in Bio. Anyway, look, I’m sorry.” He looks sincere. Like a puppy.

Rey shrugs. “It’s okay, I really didn’t care.”

Jamie nods. “Still.”

“It’s your skank girlfriend who should be apologizing.” Rose’s voice cuts in between them, her head poking out of the rolled-down window.

Jamie half-smiles, half-grimaces, which Rey admits is not an easy thing to do. She’s impressed. And maybe slightly charmed. But only a little.

“Ex. Ex-girlfriend.”

His smile is doing something to her. It’s warm and boyish with a hint of something mischievous. Rey finds her cheeks heating up as the winter wind whips a chill upon her face.

“You know, Rey’s single too.”

Rey turns to Rose and glares at her as best as she can, but there’s no real menace behind it. Rose just smirks as she rolls up the window.

Rey turns back around, her face as red as her JanSport, to find Jamie grinning even wider. She even sees a flash of teeth.

“Rey.” He tries out the name, and she finds she likes the way he rolls it on his tongue.

“Jamie,” she replies.

A few seconds pass.

“Well Rey,” he says, his eyes flickering down and back up again. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

And then he’s walking backwards for a few paces, his eyes locked on hers until he’s turning around and jogging back into the direction of the gym, his letterman jacket a bright blue and gold blur in the gray December afternoon.

Rose and Finn tease her the entire ride home.

*

Rey’s wrapping presents in kitschy Christmas paper as she bobs along to Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” on the stereo. Scraps of colorful paper and ribbon and cello tape are spread all around her on the plush cream carpet.

Leia rasps on the open door. Pops her head in. “Just wanted to say goodnight, dear. I’ve got an early day tomorrow.”

“But tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.” Rey pouts on her behalf.

“I know.” Leia sighs. She wanders into the room, then sits down on the edge of Rey’s bed. “But I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon. Hopefully before five. We can do any last-minute shopping if you’d like.”

Rey thinks about the mall on Christmas Eve. Shudders. “No, that’s okay. I think I got everything I wanted to get.”

“Good. Though you didn’t need to spend your allowance. All you have to do is ask.”

“I know.” Rey smiles. “Thank you so much. For everything.”

“Of course sweetie.” Leia gets up, then gently cusps the side of Rey’s jaw as she smiles warmly down on her like the sun. “Try not to go to bed too late.”

“I won’t, I promise.”

“And Rey...” Leia turns back around at the door. “I like your Christmas music. Very festive.”

Rey laughs as she watches her drift out of view, down the dark hall towards the empty master bedroom.

Bits of paper fall off Rey like confetti as she gets up and stretches. She walks over to the stereo, flipping through the haphazard stacks of CDs before landing on one she found in the living room. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” floats out of the speakers, bright and nostalgic like 1940s tinsel.

Rey glides over to her bed and sits down cross-legged, picking up the final gifts she has to wrap. The ones she saved for last, because she wants it all to be perfect, even down to the wrapping paper.

A vinyl of _Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness._ The Empire Diner mug. A framed drawing recreating the photo he lost in the crash, but described to her as: Han and Leia on a beach, smiling, sun, 1983, terrible fashion.

She had felt a bit intrusive as she flipped though the old family photo albums in order to draw Han, but she hoped he would love it. That he’d well up, turn and look at her, really seeing her. And then he’d grab her and kiss her, and when they came up for air he’d say something like, “He would have loved you. Just like I do.”

And her final gift, the one that expresses how she feels more than words ever could:

A mixtape slash love letter.

*

It’s two in the morning, and everything is a quiet hum.

Rey opens up the fridge as quietly as she can, though she really needn’t be in a house so large. She pulls out a tupperware of spaghetti. A fork. Doesn’t even bother sitting down.

“There’s a microwave, you know.”

Rey startles like a mouse. Long strings of spaghetti with marinara are hanging out of her mouth attractively.

Ben smirks, leaning against the doorjamb that leads into the kitchen.

“Long time no see,” Rey says as smoothly as she can after swallowing.

It’s almost imperceptible, but something changes. His smile slips a millimeter, his eyes turn the slightest shade darker in a room that was dark in the first place. But it happened.

“Sorry,” he says as he pushes away from the doorjamb. At first she thinks he’s walking to her, maybe to hug her, as he obscures her view until all she can see is his gray tee shirt and the hard muscles underneath.

But then he’s reaching up. The fibers of his hoodie graze Rey’s shoulder as the cabinet door above her head swings open. He pulls out a glass.

“So what are you doing up?” Rey’s looking down at her spaghetti, trying not to stare. At least not until he turns around to face the sink.

There's a long pause as Ben lets the water run. “Can’t sleep.”

“Well I can’t sleep either, if you wanted to hang out,” she offers casually, breezily, as if it makes no difference to her either way.

“Another night.”

His back is still to her, so she can’t see his face. But she can see his white knuckles as he grips the sides of the sink. Rey’s thankful for this, so that he can’t see her disappointment. He reads her all too well. Sometimes when she doesn’t want him to.

“Okay.” Rey spins another loop of spaghetti onto her fork, then shoves it into her mouth.

Ben finally fills up his glass. As he turns, he stares at her for a few seconds with an indecipherable look on his face. One Rey’s never seen before. But then he’s smiling a half-smile meaning “goodnight,” walking out of the kitchen before she can read any further into it.

The glass of water is still on the table, untouched.

Rey finishes her spaghetti. Washes the dish because she still needs to tread lightly, even in a home that’s beginning to feel like her real home.

As she quietly walks past Ben’s room, she hears music playing.

“Tonight, Tonight.” _Melon Collie and the Infinite Sadness._

So he has it already? When did he pick it up?

The door opens. Light spills out into the darkened hallway.

A woman. Long, glossy waves that are shimmying as she turns her head. Looks right at Rey.

She’s wearing a long tee shirt. A band shirt. The pulsar of Joy Division’s _Unknown Pleasures._ And nothing else.

“Oh hi,” she chirps. “Ruth, right?”

Rey recognizes her. The woman from the grocery store. Bazine, she thinks.

Ben’s ex.

She is his ex, right? Because right now, she doesn’t look like an ex.

Does Ben have a girlfriend?

Bazine pushes the door open wider, revealing the unmistakable figure of Ben lying in the bed behind her.

Rey turns around without a word. Walks to her room. Shuts the door.

The mixtape is lying on her nightstand, still unwrapped.

Rey picks it up and unravels it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate me. This _is_ an angst piece, after all. There’s going to be more fluff, and eventually a HEA, but we still have a long way to go. This story isn’t even halfway over.
> 
> Anyway, random thoughts:
> 
> How many MSCL references this time?
> 
> Rose is awesome. She totally carries a taser everywhere in my HC. 
> 
> _The Odyssey_ = Rey is Penelope, Ben is Odysseus, Bazine is Calypso.
> 
>  **Next chapter:** “Hallelujah” by Jeff Buckley


	10. Ben's Been Here Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long wait for this chapter. Hopefully it's worth the wait!
> 
> Thanks so much to [Semperfidani](http://semperfidani.tumblr.com) for the chapter moodboard!

_Maybe there’s a God above_  
_But all I’ve ever learned from love  
__Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya_

  _And it’s not a cry that you hear at night  
__It’s not somebody who’s seen the light_

  _“Hallelujah” by Jeff Buckley_  

* * *

 

The traffic on the highway is at a standstill as “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)” by Mariah Carey plays on the radio.

Leia is in the driver’s seat singing along, framed by the snowflakes falling down past the window. The sky is an endless white, headlights glowing yellow and taillights glowing red all around them like Christmas lights. Cars from the other side of the highway are swooshing past. Every so often, a horn blasts. Leia turns up the music.

Ben is itching for a cigarette. He’s tempted to crank down the window, but he knows Leia hates the smell. She’s already tutted at him several times today, every time he ducked out of a store to stand outside the Hanna City Mall. Every time he found her again, she would brush the flakes out of his hair and off his flanneled shoulders, shaking her head as she sighed over the holiday music playing over the speakers. He was convinced the fifth verse of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” consisted of: “You forgot the wool pea coat I bought you last year, but not your pack of cigarettes, I see.”

Ben believes that if there is such a thing as hell, it’s a mall on Christmas Eve.

Thankfully their shopping is finally done. He glances back at the bags in the backseat, containing sweaters, books, board games, crystal figurines—why Mara collects those things, he’ll never understand—and something else. He’d had to go to three different stores to get everything. When he’d met up with Leia again, she’d given him a strange look, but he barely noticed, let alone cared. He was used to those looks. He’d been given those looks since he was born.

“Get everything you wanted?” Leia asks as the car moves a few feet, then stops again.

“Yeah,” Ben replies, his fingers tapping on the car door. “I think so.”

“What did you get your girlfriend?”

Ben looks out the window, at the flakes falling softly down. He watches them dissolve onto the dirty pavement. It makes him sad for some reason. He shrugs one shoulder.

A few moments pass. The car moves forward a few feet again. Stops. “You know I never cared for Bazine, Ben. But—“

“But?” As his head turns to her, his hair falls in his eyes. He shakes it away, along with the memory of Rey pushing it back, telling him he needs a haircut.

Leia sighs. “I don’t want to see _anyone_ get hurt.”

“And you think I’m going to hurt her?”

Leia doesn’t respond. Anyone who doesn’t know her well would think she was ignoring them, but Ben recognizes the politician when he sees her. He knows the _politician_ better than his _mother_. Her head tilts slightly as she weighs her words carefully. “I think… you were making excellent progress before.”

“And you don’t think I am now?”

“That’s not what I’m—“

“No, no, right. I’m just a fuck up. And I fuck up everyone else’s life too. Bazine’s, yours, Dad’s—“

“ _Ben_.” Leia lowers the volume, turning to him. “That’s not what I’m saying at all.”

“I know exactly what you’re saying,” he mumbles, turning back to the window.

There’s a weight in the air that wasn't there before. It feels stifling. Ben briefly entertains fantasies of opening the car door and making a run for it.

“I know last Christmas—“

“I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT LAST CHRISTMAS!” He yells, whipping back to her. His voice rings even in his own ears. It hangs in between them, echoing in the small space that’s growing increasingly smaller and tighter.

Leia doesn’t even flinch. “Benjamin Solo. You will calm yourself right now. Count to ten, think of—“

“Oh I didn’t know you’d gotten your therapist license.”

Leia closes her eyes, sighing heavily. A sigh of a saint, a downtrodden and maltreated Dickens character. “Let’s just get through the holidays, shall we? Luke and Mara will be by soon, and I want to make this special for Rey.”

“Because I’ll just fuck up Rey too, right?” Ben runs an increasingly-shaky hand through his hair. “Got to keep the bad apples away from the good ones.”

She’s giving him that look again. A _Where did I go wrong?_ look. A _What did I do to deserve this?_ look. The _What’s wrong with Ben?_ classic.

“You know I don't like it when you put words in my mouth, Benjamin.” 

“And you know I don’t like it when you act like I’m going to fall apart at any moment.”

“I worry about you, is all. I’m allowed to worry. I’m your mother.”

“Could have fooled me,” he mumbles at the window, his breath fogging up the glass. Even though he’s not looking at her, he can feel the sting as if he had accidentally pierced himself in the process.

“Just…” A sigh. “Be careful.”

Ben closes his eyes as he leans his forehead against the glass. The coolness seeps through his hair, grounding him. “I know what I’m doing.”

“I hope so.”

Six cranks and the window is fully open, snowflakes drifting in as the car slowly pulls forward. The pressure inside is relieved like blood seeping out of a wound. Everything is turned up: the wet cold and the sounds of the whooshing and honking and windshield wipers. Ben pulls out a cigarette from the Rebels pack in his breast pocket. It’s only after he lights it and takes a deep inhale—so deep that it burns his lungs— that he can feel something.

*

Luke and Mara’s silver Prius is waiting in the driveway when they pull up to the house.

Ben’s the first to get out. He’s tempted to just get in one of his father’s cars and go for an aimless drive, which is how he usually used to cool off. But he knows Leia is watching him like a hawk, even if she’s an expert at seeming like she isn’t. After all, the last time he went for a drive after an argument, the Falcon had ended up at the bottom of the Atlantic.

As they walk into the foyer carrying a multitude of colorful bags, they barely have time to stomp the snow off their boots before Mara is hugging them tightly, suffocatingly, a glass of wine in her hand. Ben checks his watch. 3:22 PM.

Luke hugs Leia, then pauses before nodding at him. Ben pretends not to see.

“How was the drive from Vermont?” Leia asks as she hangs up her gray wool coat next to Ben’s black one, the one he never wears. Rey’s coat is hanging up next to his, a thin wool in random patterns of red, blue, orange, green and brown, reminding him of a carpet. He hopes his mother bought her a new one for Christmas.

Mara responds cheerfully, but Ben doesn’t hear a word. He's already taking the steps two at a time, the handles wrapped in his hand, the weight of what’s inside heavier than it was inside the mall.

Right before he opens his door, he glances at the closed one of Rey’s room. Strains of R.E.M.’s “Everybody Hurts” float out from the space underneath. He’s barely seen her since last night, despite school being out for winter break, only catching glimpses of chestnut hair and plaid as she walks in and out of doors, leaving rooms just as he enters them. To be honest, he’s barely seen her the past week, though if he was honest with himself, he hadn’t exactly been seeking her out. Not like he used to, anyway. It’s not that he doesn’t want her company—if anything, it’s _because_ he wants it so much. Too much.

And the truth is… he’s lonely.

He doesn’t like to admit it. It’s a weakness. A hamartia—a fatal flaw. One that brings about the downfall of a noble or exceptional character. Not that he considers himself noble _or_ exceptional. If there was a word for a fatal flaw of an antagonist, a villain, then he’s certain that would be more fitting.

It’s because of this hamartia that he found himself dialing a familiar number late one night. He’d like to believe it was a moment that surprised even himself, but then that would mean he thought better of himself, of his own nature. And he is nothing but a creature of habit, of self-destruction, of making the same mistakes over and over and over like a mouse in a maze, never learning, never going anywhere. In this, he is his father’s son.

What _had_ surprised him was how easy it all was. How effortlessly they fell back into it, as if the past few months had never happened. Even if Baz reminds him of the scar every time he sees her, tracing it with her manicured fingernails as they lie in bed together afterwards. She even calls it _sexy_. As if what he had gone though was _sexy_. The slicing of his flesh through the windshield as he hurtled off a cliff and almost died in one of the worst moments of his life _sexy_.

He had almost ended it right then and there the first time she said it. Now, he considers it part of his punishment.

He doesn’t deserve to be happy. He doesn’t deserve anything good in this world. And there’s so much that’s too good for him, but yet, that doesn’t stop him from _wanting_. It’s that want, that deep ache that keeps him up at night, like a festering wound, never healing despite how much he tries to patch it with music and books and random hobbies picked up and discarded, and pot and drinking and sex.

It all feels good in the moment. He even forgets for a while that it never lasts. Nothing ever lasts. Nothing ever gets better. The buzz deflates into a hangover, into a resounding regret, into an emptiness even more hollow than before. And then he’s looking for something else to fill it, something else to get by, something, anything. Feeling both light and heavy at the same time, a weight pressing on him, always pressing down on him, crushing him, suffocating him, until death feels like the only hand he can see, offering a way out. He puts it in his back pocket, always there like coins rattling around, reminding him that it’s there when he needs it, when things get to be too much, when the static won’t lower with the next thing he tries to drown it out with.

The static is dialed up to eleven right now. Ben puts on “Butterfly With Butterfly Wings”—Smashing Pumpkins, _Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness_. He tries not to associate the band with Baz, as she was the one who had gifted the record to him last night. He must have offhandedly mentioned he was looking for it. The idea saddens him, because while she clearly listens to him, he can’t remember half the things she says. He tries not to think about this. He also tries not to think about the fact he hadn't given her anything in return. He had tried to find something in the mall for her today, but when he thought about what she might like, nothing except a house in the Hamptons and a rich husband stuck out. What do you get for someone you couldn’t care less about? A calendar? Socks?

Her disappointed look from last night flashes through his mind. Yet another person disappointed in him. To her credit, she had tried to hide it well, before not-so-subtly suggesting jewelry. They were back together for a week and already she was expecting fucking diamonds. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if she was expecting a ring.

The thought makes him laugh. He’s unemployed, an unpublished writer, still living at home. Why she wants more is a mystery. Even before everything went to shit, there was never anything more between them than a good fuck. Sure, there was a time he wanted more. But it was never really _her_ he wanted, but the idea of her. Of someone.

But Rey… he wants Rey. He wants her more than he’s ever wanted anyone or anything. It electrifies him. Like Frankenstein’s Monster, it galvanizes his body. It’s the reason his heart beats, blood rushes through his veins. It’s like an upper, deceasing his appetite, his need for sleep. He’s even stopped taking so many depression naps.

He’s even begun writing again.

*

It gets dark at five now.

They have dinner at six. Lupe has prepared a meal of ham with pineapples, oven-roasted potatoes, yams, green beans sautéed in garlic and olive oil, and carrots glazed in brown sugar. There’s a side salad and plenty of wine. At some point, Mara knocks over a glass of pinot noir onto the white tablecloth, which sparkles with silver threads weaved into it. It reminds him of blood spilled upon snow.

Rey sits across from him. She’s wearing a dark green sweater, which compliments her skin and hair beautifully. He spends most of the time staring at her instead of eating, trying to catch her eye, but she doesn’t look at him once.

Luke asks her questions which seem friendly and curious on the surface, but are really disguising the Spanish Inquisition. When he asks her where she grew up, how she came to live in Maine, what he’s really asking is, _How did you, a street urchin, come to live in my sister’s house?_

“Did you ever consider maybe it’s none of your fucking business?” Ben growls, his eyes locked onto Luke’s, which are just as unblinking and unyielding.

The table is silent. Mara drains the last of her wine. Lupe refills it.

 _“Benjamin,”_ Leia hisses.

A few tense moments pass as Ben and Luke remain frozen in a stand-off.

“I didn’t realize I’d be needing my dueling pistol tonight,” Luke quips, holding out his own glass. Leia and Mara fake laugh. “Perhaps I should have brought my sword.”

Ben looks over at Rey. Her cheeks are rosy with an embarrassed flush as she stares down at her mashed yams, her fork pushing them around on the porcelain plate.

“How _is_ my nephew doing?” He hears Luke ask. It’s not in a curious tone, or even a concerned one. There’s a derision to it, but it’s so subtle, that only those who _really_ know Luke can hear it. Ben’s eyes snap up at the same time Rey’s does, but he doesn’t see it.

The table grows silent again, but it’s a heavier silence than before. As sharp as the edge of the knife Ben wishes he could stab Luke with.

“Fine,” Ben hears himself answer cooly.

“I’m surprised they let you out of the insane asylum for Christmas.” Luke cuts a piece of meat casually, showing it into his mouth. Ben hopes he chokes on it.

“Luke,” Mara admonishes, but it’s half-hearted.

“What kind of drugs did they give you?” Luke continues. “Must not be working. Then again, maybe drugs were always the problem with you. You should try meditation, vitamins—“

“Anyone want coffee?” Leia asks, standing up. “Dessert?”

“I’ll have some.” Mara smiles.

“Right, thanks for the advice Dr. Skywalker.” Ben glares at him over the rim of his own wine glass. He takes a long gulp as a point.

“You sure he should be mixing pills with alcohol, Leia?”

Before Leia can respond, Ben snaps, “I’m right fucking here, you know.”

“Oh I know. But clearly you’re not adult enough to—“

Ben laughs. A hard, sardonic sound that echoes across the dining room. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“If Han was here—“

“If Han was here _what?_ ” The air is crackling with intensity. Ben can almost see it—sparks like two flints striking together to start a fire.

“ _If Han was here_ ,” Luke continues without any hesitation. “He’d be ashamed at what you’ve done to yourself.” He shakes his head slowly for dramatic effect. “What you’re doing to yourself.”

“Luke!” Leia snaps.

“You ruined last Christmas dinner, his last Christmas, the way you threw that fit. Why would this Christmas be any different?”

“That’s enough!” Leia’s voice cuts through them all. She hardly ever raises her voice, let alone yells, and this is one of the rare times Ben has ever heard her do so, in all his twenty-six years. Leia turns to Rey. Ben follows her gaze, looking at Rey too. She’s sitting motionless, her head down as she stares at her plate. “Rey, dear, would you please help me in the kitchen?”

Rey doesn’t move.

“Rey?” Ben asks, his voice soft. Only for her.

Rey’s eyes snap up. They’re shining with unshed tears. This doesn’t surprise him. What _does_ surprise him, however, is the anger he sees there. Burning with a ferocity he recognizes all too well, because he feels it within himself.

“I didn’t know Han…” Rey’s voice is surprisingly clear and steady, her eyes never once leaving Ben’s. “But I don’t think that’s true.”

A silence quieter than anything he’s ever heard fills the dining room. But then the scraping of chairs and clacking of plates and glasses and silverware fills the space again, along with the forced merriness of people who love each other but don’t always like each other.

It’s all noise to him. It blends in with the rest of the static. But her voice manages to cut through it all, over the voices in both the kitchen and his head. “You’re not alone.”

They stare at one another across the table in the empty dining room, their eyes never once drifting down or away, saying all the things their lips will not.

“Neither are you.”

*

Ben waits for Rey on her bed. It’s made up so precisely, it’s as if she’s in the military, unlike his own messy one. He remembers how messy her bed always was in the hospital, and it strikes him that maybe she’s still not comfortable here. This thought—this made-up bed—saddens him more than anything else has tonight.

After dinner, Rey went into the living room with Leia, Luke, and Mara, presumedly to watch Christmas movies and open presents, if the noises rising from downstairs were anything to go by. Ben had excused himself to his room before the coffee was even brought out. Rey had begun to follow his lead, but he had urged her to stay. He knew how much this meant not only to Rey, but to Leia. For Rey, a real Christmas spent with someone she loves. For Leia, a Christmas spent with the daughter she never had.

Ben would only get in the way. A black shadow sulking in the corner, casting a darkness over everyone else’s good time.

Instead, he lies on Rey’s queen-sized mattress, closing his eyes as he lets her smell engulf him. His thoughts naturally drift to what it would be like with her in the bed next to him, her legs tangled in his, her head nestled in his neck as his arms wrap around her body, holding her tight. Just them against the world. If the world were to end, that’s how he would want to go.

The door opens.

Rey stands there for a moment, then closes the door behind her. She leans against it, keeping a respectable distance. The distance between two strangers, maybe even acquaintances. It’s not close enough. It’ll never be fucking close enough. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” Ben shrugs one shoulder, staring at the space between them. An ocean. “I’m used to it.”

“You shouldn’t have to be.” Her voice is quiet but livid. There’s such a passion there, and for the millionth time since he’s met this girl, she’s managed to surprise him. He loves her for it. Her kindness, her compassion, her defense of those she cares about. He loves her.

He loves her.

It hits him like a punch to the stomach.

He loves her.

Ben sits up, then slowly stands. He watches as she tenses, as if she’s afraid he’s going to cross that distance. Or maybe it’s not fear after all. Could it be anticipation? “Come on.” He holds out his hand. “I want to show you something.”

Rey takes his hand.

It occurs to him it’s the first time they’ve touched since the hospital.

*

Ben leads her up the carpeted steps to the attic. Her hand is still enclasped in his. Her hand is so small compared to his own, but it feels right. It feels like it fits. Just like how she felt against him. Just like how she fit into his life, even before he knew there was something missing. Now he couldn’t imagine his life without her in it. She was his family.

The attic is dark. Ben drops her hand to go over to the corner, to the outlet.

Hundreds of yellow string lights come to life, glowing like fireflies in the space. They criss-cross over each other, hanging over a yellow tent he had set up earlier, when he came home from the mall.

“Ben, what is this?” Rey’s voice is breathy as she glances around. Her lips hang open as the lights reflect in her pupils.

“It’s your Christmas present.” He shrugs. “Do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful. It’s…” She turns back to him. “It’s beautiful, Ben. Thank you.”

“You haven’t even seen the best part.” He grabs her hand again. “Come on.”

Ben leads her over to the tent, lifting the flap. Inside the tent is a cot filled with comfy blankets and pillows borrowed from one of the hallway closets. A brand new record player is in the middle of the tent, against the bright yellow nylon. A milk crate of records he’s been collecting for her the past few weeks sits next to it.

“Is this all for me?”

“It’s all for you,” he says as he shuffles through the records. He pulls out Jeff Buckley’s _Grace_. Shimmies it out of the sleeve. Puts it on side two. Lifts the record player arm, placing the needle on the first track. There’s a _rippp_ , a crackle, and then the melancholic guitar of “Hallelujah” is warmly drifting out of the speakers.

Ben looks over at Rey as she sits on the cot. He sits down next to her, the entire sides of their bodies touching, from shoulders down to hips down their thighs down the length of their legs, to their boots.

Seconds pass. Their chests rise and fall with deep breaths, the muscles in their thighs twitch. The hair on their arms stands up underneath their sleeves.

“Did you want to lie down?” Ben asks, fully expecting her to say no. Instead, she lies down behind him. A few seconds later, he follows.

She’s lying on her left side against the yellow nylon wall. He’s lying on his right. They stare at one another as the vinyl spins.

“What happened last Christmas?” she whispers, though there’s nobody there to overhear them. But this moment is sacred. This tent a house of worship. Anything above a certain decibel would feel wrong.

Ben stares at Rey, at the green flecks in her hazel eyes. He trusts her. He’d trust her with his life. But does he want to ruin this? Have her think less of him? What if she starts to look at him differently? He likes the way she sees him—it makes him feel like maybe he could even be that person. Interesting. Intelligent. Witty. Good. Is he ready to lose that? To have her look at him just like everybody else?

“Ben?”

He closes his eyes. It’s like driving off the cliff all over again. He takes a deep breathe. Presses the pedal down. “My dad and I got into a fight. The worst we ever had. I had caught him kissing an old flame of his, a woman named Qi’ra.”

The record turns and turns in endless circles, the needle dragging. Crackles and hisses and pops of imperfections.

“He said it was just a goodbye kiss, for old time’s sake,” he continues. “That it wasn’t an affair. I still don’t know if that’s true or not. But we had it out. It wasn’t even just over that. You know how fights go, especially the really bad ones... once they start, everything comes out. And I told him…” A rush of air leaves him involuntarily, as if he’s been punched in the gut. “I told him I didn’t care if he lived or died. That he should just hurry up and die already. That we’d all be better off. Then I stormed out. Crashed with Poe for a while.”

A few moments pass as Ben tries to fight down the demons. There’s a sudden prickling behind his eyes and nose. “He died a week and a half later. It was the last conversation I ever had with him.” He feels a tear slip out, despite his best efforts. “I told you I’m a monster.”

“Ben…” Rey shuffles closer. “You’re not a monster. You made a mistake. We all make mistakes.”

He shakes his head, looking down. His vision has gone blurry, and as he blinks it away, he watches as a tear drops onto the sheet, absorbing into the blue cotton, turning it darker. “Not like that.” 

Her hand is on his jaw, forcing it back towards her. “He knew you loved him. He knew it, Ben. We’ve all said things we’ve regretted. Terrible things. Things we’d give anything to take back. But you loved him, and he loved you, just as I—“ Rey stops. Bites her lip. “Just as I love you.”

There’s so many things Ben could say in this moment. Complex things, simple things. But when he looks at Rey, no words feel right. No words could touch the depths of how he feels. The words haven't been invented yet.

And so Ben does the next best thing.

He closes the few millimeters between them, pressing his lips against hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my favorite films is _The Royal Tenebaums_ , so I lovingly stole the yellow tent and record player from Wes Anderson. 
> 
> Also, today was the first snowfall here. It was like the stars aligned for me to post the Christmas chapter today.
> 
> Look at this beautiful artwork of the last scene, commissioned by the lovely castles-and-crowns and drawn by the talented mrsmancuspia!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  **Next chapter:** “How Soon Is Now?” by The Smiths


	11. Don't Speak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your lovely comments! I wouldn't still be writing this without you.

_You and me_  
_We used to be together_  
_Every day together, always_

 _I really feel_  
_That I'm losing my best friend_  
_I can't believe this could be the end_

 _It looks as though you're letting go_  
_And if it's real_  
_Well I don't want to know_

_“Don't Speak” by No Doubt_

* * *

 

There is no kiss scene between Ophelia and Hamlet.

Rey is thankful for this, especially now that Jamie Murphy is playing the title role of the Danish prince. Alex Porter—the guy everyone swoons over, who looks a little like River Phoenix with a blond mushroom-cut—dropped out last-minute, leaving Daniel Cherski as the understudy. But then he dropped out too, and rumors started floating around that he was bribed to, because now Jamie Murphy is standing in front of Rey on the stage as they practice in the auditorium after school. He’s not bad, Rey will admit, but the blue-and-gold letterman jacket he always wears sticks out even more jarringly than his accent, which is somewhere in between English, Irish, and Australian.

When Rey thinks of Hamlet—thinks of who Ophelia would be in love with—she pictures a mane of long black waves and dark, soulful eyes. An introvert. An intellectual. An existentialist. The original Sad Boy. Not a jock who smiles way too much.

Doesn't he know he’s supposed to brood?

By the time Mr. Katimski calls it for the afternoon, Rey is so done with rehearsals, her stomach rumbling at the thought of the pizza she’s going to share with Finn and Rose. She’s pulling on her coat, considering whether she wants pepperoni or jalapeños when—

Rey turns around from the wooden fold-up seat in the front row to see Jamie standing in front of her, his hands shoved in his pockets, smiling as usual. Which, okay, she’ll admit it’s maybe kind of a nice smile, in a boyish way. “Hey.”

“So, uh… I was wondering if maybe you wanted to practice together. Run lines.”

Rey’s confused. “Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

“Yeah, but I mean, like, alone. You know, really get the relationship between Hamlet and Ophelia right.”

There’s something in the way Jamie’s standing there, in the way he’s looking at her. Rey’s never been looked at like that before. She thinks maybe she’s caught those looks from Ben, but they were always fleeting across his face like shadows, to the point where sometimes she wonders if she’d imagined it.

“Yeah, sure.” Rey grabs the strap of her red JanSport backpack, swinging it over one shoulder. “Did you want to meet here tomorrow after school?”

“I was actually thinking my house.” He pauses, leaning into her space slightly. “I mean, I don’t know when they lock the auditorium, so my house would be better. Unless you wanted to practice at yours?”

“Oh! Um… yeah, sure. I mean, your house is fine.”

Jamie’s smile grows even wider. There’s a sudden flip in her stomach and she doesn’t know why. She must really be hungry for that pizza.

“Great,” he says, reaching for the script still clutched in her hand. For a brief second, she grips it tighter before letting go. “Got a pen?”

“Yeah, sure.” Rey unzips the front of her backpack. Hands him a ballpoint.

A few long moments pass as he writes. Rey feels awkward just standing there. She watches the last of the cast leave the auditorium. Her eyes land on Finn and Rose lingering by the door, laughing about something.

Finally, Jamie hands her back her script. “I’ll see you Monday?”

“Yeah.”

“Have a good New Year’s,” he says, walking backwards slowly, his eyes locked on hers.

“You too.”

Rey looks down at the crinkled script. Not seeing anything on the first page, she flips through it, and there, in the margins of Act III Scene I, scrawled in blue ink:

_So I’ve watched you these past few weeks, ever since you transferred here. You're quiet but you seem cool. I had a girlfriend though so I didn’t say anything. If you ever want to run lines or just hang out:_

_1110 Liberty Drive_

_207-555-7342_

Another flip in her stomach.

 _Jalapeños_ , she thinks. _Definitely jalapeños_.

*

The heat is blasting through the vents of Finn’s beat-up Honda as they drive down the suburban streets of Chandrila. Grids of colonials in Easter egg colors of pastel pinks, blues, and greens blur past, the freshly-fallen snow still immaculately white in the bright afternoon sun.

The Smiths comes on the radio.

Rey leans back against the torn tan leather of the backseat, staring out the window, thinking of Ben.

*

The entirety of Rose’s ranch house could fit inside one wing of the Solo House. The kitchen only has store-brand cereal in the cabinets and leftover Chinese oyster pails and condiments in the fridge. There’s a beanbag in the living room, and not in an ironic way.

Rey loves it. It has a homey comfiness that Leia’s place lacks. It actually feels like people live here. The housekeeper keeps the Solo House spotless, which in turn always makes Rey feel like she’s visiting a museum. One time she forgot to use a coaster, and as the ring formed on the ornate mahogany table, Rey nearly had a panic attack trying to wipe all remnants away, like any minute Leia was going to take her back to the hospital or Plutt’s. Her case file would read: “history of mental illness, suicide attempt, and marijuana use, with a rebellious disregard for authority and condensation.”

Rose hits PLAY on her boombox in the corner. The Cardigans’s “Lovefool” drifts out of the speakers and over to Rey, who is lying on Rose’s twin bed surrounded by haphazard piles of clothes.

“So what do you want to do tonight?” Finn asks from where he is sitting cross-legged on the carpet, leaning against the bed.

Rose shrugs as she over-applies glittery eyeshadow in the mirror of her wicker vanity. “I don’t know, watch a movie? Order the pizza Rey keeps talking about like she’s about to die of starvation?”

“I am,” Rey says weakly as she stares up at the ceiling.

“As long as we don’t watch the ball drop,” says Finn. “We’re not ninety-five.”

“Well, what do you suggest we do?”

Finn looks straight up, his head leaning against the floral bedspread. “Any suggestions Rey?”

She thinks about it. There’s a calc quiz due Monday, and she still doesn’t understand the property of limits. She has a report due on Wednesday on Hemingway’s _A Farewell to Arms_ , which she gave up on reading halfway through. Really, all she wants to do is hang out in her tent, listen to records, and smoke weed.

She almost says this out loud, but stops herself. Finn and Rose don’t know about the tent. Or Ben. The tent feels sacred, like a holy place. And Ben… It’s something that feels fragile somehow, like it could all collapse as easily as the flimsy tent might in the middle of a snowstorm. Maybe it could only exist in the confines of the attic, in the dark, away from the world.

“I vote movie,” Rey says finally. “How about _Romeo + Juliet_?”

“Ooh yes!” Rose squeals. “Leonardo DiCaprio is so hot.”

"Alex kind of looks like him, don't you think?" Finn says as he shakes a snow-globe picture frame.

The door swings open. Paige, Rose’s older sister by four years, comes in shaking her head, her perfectly-straight silky black bob shimmying with the movement.

“I told you like a million times not to take my clothes without asking.”

“I didn’t take anything,” Rose protests.

Paige stalks over to the closet, pulling open the double doors. Fabrics in all different colors are hanging from the hooks on the backs. She glances around, then sighs heavily as she picks up something black from the floor.

“I was planning to wear this tonight,” she says as she turns to Rose. “And now it’s all wrinkled. Next time, ask.”

“Sorry,” says Rose, not sounding like she means it at all.

“Hey Paige.” Finn waves.

“Hey sis’s friends.” She waves back.

Rose puts down her eyeshadow palette. “Where you going tonight?”

“Mos Eisley Club. Jyn’s boyfriend’s band is playing.”

“No way. The Frozen Embryos?”

“They’re called Rogue One now.” Paige rolls her eyes.

“Can we go?

“I guess. If there’s still tickets.”

Rose turns to Finn and Rey. “We _have_ to go.”

Rey and Finn look at one another.

“Beats Leonardo DiCaprio,” Finn shrugs.

“You don’t mean that,” says Rey.

“You’re right,” he agrees, smiling. “I don’t.”

*

Rey’s never been to a concert before. Or gig, as Paige keeps calling it.

She lives music. It’s one of the vital things, at the bottom of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, right there with sleeping, eating, breathing. During times when she was at her lowest—when she couldn’t feel anything other than a profound emptiness and despair—she’d put on her cheap headphones (with one of the foam pads missing), play a CD she’d bought used at a local record store (because there was no way she could afford new ones at Tower Records), and drift away to a place far away from the tiny flat above Plutt’s Computer Repair.

Rey wonders what happened to her CDs. Plutt likely sold them along with the rest of her stuff after she was hospitalized. All she has now are the cassettes Amilyn would bring her every visit in the hospital, and the record collection Ben curated for her.

She’s never heard anything by Rogue One before. This will be her first concert. _Gig_. Her first time seeing music instead of just hearing it.

Rey doesn’t have anything to wear. She’s still in her acid-wash jeans and emerald green sweater from school, which she thinks is fine, but apparently Rose thinks otherwise.

“It’s New Year’s Eve,” she says as she finishes the last slice of pizza that Rey was eyeing. “It’s, like, required to wear something awesome,” she says as she knocks on Paige’s door. No Doubt’s "Just a Girl” is blasting from behind it.

Paige’s room is just as messy as Rose’s, but it’s more stylistically cohesive instead of a haphazard mixture caught somewhere in between childhood and adulthood. There’s band posters covering the walls like a collage—Nirvana, Green Day, The Offspring, No Doubt, The Clash. Rey wishes this was her room. She still hasn’t personalized her walls, not even hanging up any of her drawings for fear of damaging the paint and plaster.

Rey stands around awkwardly as she watches Paige, who is lying on her stomach on the bed, her legs swinging in the air as she turns over Tarot cards she has spread out on the navy bedspread. The room smells of incense and there’s flickering Novena candles all around. A hot pink bra hangs from a crucifix on the wall.

“Anything exciting going to happen tonight?” Rose asks, peering over at the cards.

Paige squints. “I think it says… I’m going to meet a really hot guy.” She turns one of the upside-down cards right-side up. “Either that, or become a singer in a ska band.”

Up close, Paige is the prettiest girl Rey has ever seen. She envies her body, her outfit—the black slip dress that Rose had stolen, ending mid-thigh over a white baby-doll tee. She’s accessorized with a black tattoo choker, a diamond stud in her nose, and an air of confidence that Rey doesn't think she’ll ever possess.

“Do you have anything we can borrow?” Rose asks from already inside Paige’s closet.

“Yeah, sure.” Paige gets up and joins her, curating their outfits with the seriousness reserved for her fashion major.

Rey looks down at the maroon-and-navy tartan miniskirt and cropped gray sweater. “Thanks,” she says, “but isn’t it a little cold for this?”

Paige rummages through her top dresser drawer. Pulls out black knee-length socks, tossing them to Rey. “It’ll get hot and sweaty in the club, believe me.”

Rey dresses in the bathroom. When she returns to Paige’s room, "Don't Speak" is playing, and Rey feels the lyrics in her bones.

“You look gorgeous!” Rose says from where she's sitting on the bed. She’s wearing ripped acid-wash jeans and a red tank top with her hair in two high buns, strands sticking out.

Paige finishes touching up her make-up in the mirror, then goes over to Rey, lifting her chin up as she applies the same ruby shade to her lips.

“There,” she says. “Now you’re ready.”

Rey turns to the mirror. The gray sweater flares out slightly out from her breasts, which look larger from the cut, revealing her midriff.

“You should totally get your navel pierced,” Paige says. “I could ask my friend Jyn to do it. She did my nose.”

Rey thinks about what Ben would do if she started wearing cropped tops around the house all the time, a sparkling jewel hanging from her belly button. “Does it hurt?”

“Of course.” Paige shrugs, turning the volume dial up. “But you'd be surprised at how much pain you could take if it’s something you really want.”

Rose is shuffling the Tarot cards, but they keep falling out haphazardly all over the bed.

Paige grabs them from her. “You have to have respect for the cards.”

“I have respect for the cards!”

Paige sits down on the bed next to Rose. She shuffles the cards smoothly, then spreads them out, the checkered turquoise backs contrasting with the navy blue bed. Looks at Rey. “Pick one. With feeling.”

“I wanted a reading,” Rose pouts.

“I just did one for you last night.” Paige rolls her eyes. “And no, Finn is never going to date you.”

Rey moves her hand over the cards. Back and forth, back and forth. She finally touches one. Paige turns it over.

“Interesting,” she murmurs.

 _Two of cups_ , reversed.

*

Mos Eisley Club is in downtown Hanna City, in the Village not far from Resistance Records.

Rey, Rose, and Finn pile into Paige’s boxy black Nissan Sentra, with Rey in the passenger seat as Finn and Rose chat excitedly in the back. Paige plays CDs she’s burned. She offers to burn some for Rey, who plays it cool, like she totally doesn’t want to become best friends with her forever and live in her room, in her closet. She could totally live off leftover Chinese and burned CDs.

The club is really more of a dive bar, with neon signs advertising cheap beers in the windows, half of the letters burned out. As the stocky and bored-looking bouncer guarding the iron door stamps the hands of Rey, Rose, and Finn with a green alien, Rey wonders what’s stopping them from just going to the bathroom and washing it off.

Paige orders something at the bar. Rey, Finn, and Rose linger around one of the high round tables waiting for her, but as soon as she grabs her beer, she joins some people at the other end of the bar. It really shouldn’t surprise Rey, that Paige wants to hang out with her friends and not with her little sister and her high school friends. But still, it stings a little.

The standing room in the back is small, but it begins to feel bigger as more people show up, clustered around in groups as they sip from plastic cups. There’s a sharp smell of spilled beer coming from somewhere, mixed in with patchouli, probably from the one guy with the long blond dreads and tie-dye shirt. Music blares from the speakers in the corners as the instruments remain silent on the stage like a still-life painting.

There’s the sound of a billiard ball being hit by a cue. Rey looks to her right, where there’s a few couches against the wall and a pool table.

_Ben._

Rey’s heart feels like it's been drop-kicked into her stomach.

Ben is here.

Ben is here, playing pool.

How did she not sense him?

He looks good. Really, really good. Like so good it's unfair. He’s wearing a white v-neck tee underneath a black leather jacket, a tuft of black waves falling in front of his eyes as he leans down over the pool table, intensely focused on one of the balls as he lines the cue up. He sinks it in.

A ginger-haired guy in blue flannel and jeans huffs as he holds the other cue. Rey’s never seen him before. She thought Ben didn’t have any friends besides her?

Rey recognizes Bazine, who struts up to him in a strapless red dress and long black sweater, sipping from something clear in a highball glass, the rim lined with a lime. Her face is pinched, but something tells Rey it has nothing to do with the drink.

She says something to Ben in his ear as he stares at the pool table. He says something back, and then her arms are gesturing vaguely and she’s growing more and more animated. He rolls his eyes a few times. The ginger guy just smiles at the scene.

“Hey, Earth to Rey,” Finn says, waving a hand in front of Rey’s eyes. “Where’d you go?”

“Sorry, just… I thought I saw someone.”

Finn turns around, trying to follow Rey’s line of sight. “Who? Where?”

Rey swallows thickly. Shakes her head. It takes a lot of willpower, but she manages to tear her eyes away, focusing instead on the stage where two guys have begun tuning their instruments. “Nobody. It doesn’t matter.”

Rose gives her a look.

“You know what I really want right now?” says Rey. “A drink.”

Rose rummages through her mini backpack. “Can you get me a Diet Coke?”

“No, like, a _drink_ drink.” Rey’s never drunk anything alcohol in her life, but she really, really wants to now, like she _needs_ it, as if she’s been an alcoholic for years.

“Um,” Finn says. “They won’t serve us.”

“I can ask Paige,” Rose says as she pulls out her wallet. “But she probably won’t do it.”

Just as Bazine slide a hand down Ben’s back, Rey turns around and stalks back towards the bar. As she stands around awkwardly, she tells herself that this isn’t any different from playing Ophelia. Just another role. She’s an actress, she can do this.

“Hi,” she says to one of the bartenders, pulling her sweater sleeve over her fist to hide the stamp. “I’d like a glass of beer, please.” Wait, which kind? Which kind? She peers over at the neon signs in the windows. “A Pabst Blue Ribbon.”

The bartender raises an eyebrow. “Got ID?”

Rey freezes.

“Dani!” A dark-haired girl in a Rogue One band shirt greets the bartender. “Long time no see.”

“Hey,” the bartender replies. “Your man playing tonight?”

“Yep. PBR por favor.”

“Wanna put it on the tab?”

“Yeah.” The girl side-glances at Rey, then turns to face her more fully. “Hey, I think I know you. You’re in my Women’s Lit, right?”

The air whooshes as Paige runs up and hugs the girl from behind. “There you are bestie.” She then notices Rey as her chin rests on the girl’s shoulder. “Oh hey, Jyn… do you think you can pierce Rey’s navel?”

Jyn looks Rey up and down. Pulls a Bic lighter out from her pocket, the flame glowing extra bright in the darkened atmosphere. “Let’s do this.”

Rey panics. “Wait, right now?”

“Sure, why not? No time like the present. Hey Dani,” Jyn calls out to the bartender, who is pulling off the tap. “Got a needle by any chance?”

“There’s a sewing kit around here somewhere I think.”

“I’m okay, really,” Rey protests, looking frantically towards the back room for Rose and Finn.

“Sweet,” Jyn says as Dani hands her the sewing kit from underneath the bar. She opens it, then turns back to Rey. Nudges her plastic cup of beer towards her. “Liquid courage.”

*

The bathroom is disgusting.

The tile, which might have been white once, is scuffed and graffitied. There’s the acrid smell of urine and bleach. The light bulb is constantly flickering, and Rey wonders how Jyn will be able to see well enough to do this.

“Relax,” Jyn says as she moves the lighter’s flame back and forth over the needle, sanitizing it. “I’ve done this literally hundreds of times. I used to charge, too. Practically had my own piercing studio in the girl’s bathroom at Chandrila High.”

“I’m totally relaxed,” Rey, who is not relaxed, says.

Paige sits on top of the sink, turning the faucets on and off mindlessly as Rey holds a wad of paper towels soaked in cold water to her abdomen. Jyn takes them from her and throws it into the overflowing trash bin, then lines the needle up to the top of her navel.

“Ready?”

“You know, I think my friends are probably wondering where—OW!”

“Sorry,” Jyn, who is not sorry, says.

Rey looks down, at the needle lodged up through her skin. There’s a trickle of blood that Jyn wipes away with a fresh paper towel that Paige hands her. And then the needle is being pulled out as a steel barbel with cubic zirconia is pushed in.

“Don’t worry, I washed it,” Jyn says. “It’s mine but you can have it. I have more at home.”

Rey smiles down at her as she wipes the rest of the blood away. “Thanks.”

“No worries.”

Paige jumps down, adjusting the strap of her dress in the dirty mirror as the sounds of guitar begins vibrating the tile. Someone begins knocking.

“Alright alright,” Jyn yells at the door. “Calm your tits.”

As Jyn opens the door, the music hits Rey like a tsunami. It’s loud and brash and distorted. The vibrations buzz through her body, along with the buzz from the beer.

“Fuck, I love this song,” says Jyn as they make their way down the hall.

“I think you're, like, legally required to like it,” Paige points out.

“Please, I’d have no problem telling them they suck. I’ve done it before.”

Paige shakes her head. “And you wonder why Cassian keeps dumping you.”

“That’s because break-up sex is fucking hot.” She winks at Rey as if it's a secret between them; as if she knows what she's talking about.

Walking in the same direction as the other two, Rey almost feels like she belongs. Almost.

Once the hallway opens up into the back room like a stream into a lake, they walk ahead without her, not once looking back.

*

The band is—as Rose keeps repeating—"ah-mayyy-zing." They have a raw energy to them that galvanizes the entire crowd, which is swaying and jumping up and down like turbulent waves. Everything's blurred in the darkness, with green, purple, and blue strobe lights flashing in time to the beat.

Rey's very, very buzzed. She's on her third beer, on her way to getting drunk. Jyn put them on the Rogue One Tab, explaining that Dani gives them a discount. For the first time that night, she doesn't care so much about Ben and Bazine. She feels free.

Rose is really getting into it too, her dancing more akin to having a seizure than anything rhythmic or graceful. Finn, meanwhile, abandoned them to talk to some blond guy with glasses named Cory. Something about asking him what it’s like being in the drama program at Coruscant U. But as Rey watches them as they sit close together on one of the couches—watches Finn smile widely and look for any excuse to touch Cory—she begins to realize why Rose never managed to make any headway.

As Rey tips back the last of the beer, the plastic cup crinkling, a large hand suddenly grips her bicep, swinging her around. The room spins a little.

Rey instantly goes into defense mode. Years of living with Plutt meant having to learn the hard way how to defend herself. Her right leg swings out, kicking her attacker in the balls.

Ben doubles over on the floor.

“Oh my god!” Rey’s hands are in front of her mouth. “I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he breathes out, shaking his head. “What the fuck, Rey?”

As he straightens up, looming over her, Rey no longer feels badly. A part of her feels he deserves it, after everything.

After he pulled away.

After he kissed her. After _he_ kissed _her._ Not the other way around.

After he practically ran out of the tent and down the steps, back to hide in the safety of his room like a coward. After he refused to speak to her for days after. And now it was awkward every time they found themselves in the same room, like exes who’ve never dated.

He wouldn’t even give them a chance to become exes.

“What are you doing here?” he hisses, his eyes dark.

Rey bristles. “The same thing as you, I assume.”

“This is a bar, Rey. You’re too young to be in here.”

“Not too old to make-out with, though.”

Ben narrows his eyes. In response, Rey crosses her arms and stares him down. Or up. He’s close and really tall and more handsome than ever and _wait_ , now she’s just getting distracted.

Ben’s eyes flick down. She can tell the exact second he realizes her stomach is bare, and that there’s now a shiny jewel where there wasn’t before.

“Jesus Christ, Rey! That looks infected." He's looking down her body again. "And what the fuck are you wearing?!”

Rey rolls her eyes. “It’s red because I just got it done.”

“You’re letting some fucking strangers pierce you in a bar? What the fuck?” He shrugs his leather jacket off, swinging it on her shoulders. “I’m taking you home right now.”

"No, you're not."

Ben grabs her arm and begins pulling her through the crowd. She tries to wrestle away, but his grip is iron. As he half-drags her past the bar and out the front door, Rey can't figure out if the pounding of her heart is due to fury or excitement.

Out in front of the club, the frigid night air hits her like a dunk of cold water. She's flushed and sweaty from the back room, so it feels good, even if it sobers her up a little. Ben doesn't seem cold at all, even though he's only wearing a thin shirt, the corded muscles in his arms tense as he continues to drag her down the block.

Rey finally manages to wrestle her arm away, stopping short on the sidewalk. “I’m not leaving my friends!”

“They drove you here, they can get home just fine.”

“And what about your girlfriend? You gonna leave _her_?”

Ben stops and stares, an indecipherable look on his face. It’s then Rey realizes the double meaning of her words. She looks down at her Docs. There’s gum on the pavement.

“Fuck,” she hears him mutters to himself. She looks back up and watches as he runs a hand through his hair, pushing it away as gazes out to the street, at the cars driving past. After a few seconds, he pulls out his Nokia and dials. “Hey, Baz. Sorry, I’m going to have to bail. I have to bring Rey home.” He glances at her quickly, then looks away again. “Rey, my foster sister. Yeah.” Pause. “No, I’m outside the club right now. No, no, you don’t have to—“

He brings the phone down, staring at it for a few seconds before closing his eyes, gripping the bridge of his nose.

“Really, you should go back inside. Go be with your _girlfriend._ Have fun. I’m going to go do the same.”

She doesn’t make it two steps before he’s blocking her way.

“I’m taking you home," he seethes. "There’s no debate.”

“Look, I’m allowed to be here!” She pulls up her sleeve and shoves the back of her left hand into his face.

“Then why do I smell beer on your breath?”

Oh. Fuck.

“I had a sip. That’s all.”

Ben bends his head low, inches away from her face. His eyes are like hard black stones. “You’re lying to me. _Don’t fucking lie to me.”_

In this moment, Ben is kind of scary. She’s never seen him like this before.

“You know,” Rey says airily, “you’ve given me weed how many times? Which, last I checked, is illegal. So it’s kind of hypocritical you’re getting all worked up over me having _one sip_ of beer.”

A muscle in Ben’s jaw jumps. “Every time you’ve smoked, I’ve been with you. We’ve been at home. That’s a hell of a lot different than going out to a bar, getting wasted, getting things pierced—”

“I’m _not_ wasted! I’m just here to see a band with my friends. Seriously, go back inside. Go back to Bazine. Leave me the hell alone.”

“Rey—“

“Or maybe I should tell Leia you’re not taking your meds anymore.”

Ben reels back as if she's just slapped him.

As they stare at one another in the middle of the sidewalk, Rey suddenly feels the cold in a way she hadn't seconds ago. She shivers. Listens to the sounds of the cars whooshing past through the dirty snow. Faint voices laugh down the block.

Ben visibly swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. When he speaks again, his voice sounds distant, far away. “You know they don’t work.”

“But that’s a condition of you living at home, right?”

Ben just continues to stare, like maybe he's never seen her before either.

After what feels like an eternity, he shrugs, and it’s the worst kind of shrug. “Fine. Do whatever you want, Rey.”

Rey swings his jacket off, instantly missing the warmth. She shoves it balled-up into his chest, and then—before she can stop herself—she's pushing past him, back towards the club, using every ounce of willpower not to look back.

This time, Ben doesn’t stop her.

*

**10**

Rey looks at Rose, Finn, and Cory as they chant along the crowd with her.

**9**

Jyn is on stage, her arm around her boyfriend, the lead singer of the band. They chant into the mic together.

**8**

Rey’s not sure where Paige is, but she probably has a hot guy to kiss. Girls like Paige never have problems in that area.

**7**

She glances to her left, and out of the corner of her eye she can see Bazine, her arms wrapped around Ben, laughing.

**6**

Rey just wants to go home.

**5**

Rose smiles widely, her glittery eyeshadow catching the strobe lights.

**4**

Rey wishes she could be happy like that.

**3**

She wants to be in her tent.

**2**

Listen to records, get stoned, be alone.

**1**

**HAPPY NEW YEAR!**

Noisemakers sound as everyone cheers. Rey watches as Rose looks hopefully at Finn, who doesn't see her because he’s staring at Cory. Rey knows she shouldn’t do this, but she can’t stop herself. She must be a masochist, because she turns to look at Ben as he kisses Bazine passionately, her lean arms wrapped around his shoulders, her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paige doing a Tarot reading for Rey was inspired by Tarot featuring heavily in the episode “Other People’s Mothers” of My So-Called Life.
> 
> [inspo for Rey's NYE outfit](https://c2.staticflickr.com/8/7805/46400552864_e8dfae9c39_b.jpg)
> 
> **Next chapter:** “Hows It Going to Be” by Third Eye Blind


	12. How's It Going to Be?

_I'm only pretty sure_  
_that I can't take anymore_  
_Before you take a swing, I wonder_  
_What are we fighting for?_  
_When I say out loud I want to get out of this_  
_I wonder is there anything I'm going to miss_

 _I wonder how it's going to be_  
_When you don't know me_  
_How's it going to be_  
_When you're sure I'm not there_  
_How's it going to be_  
_When there's no one there to talk to_  
_Between you and me_  
_Cause I don't care_  
_How's it going to be_

_“How’s It Going to Be” by Third Eye Blind_

* * *

 

When Rey wakes up on Friday, January 1, 1999, the first thing she sees is white. As she stumbles out of bed, bleary-eyed and longing for waffles, she sits on the window-seat and stares out the glass, at the snow falling softly down onto the wide lawn.

She turns on the radio to listen for school closings. As the DJ lists all the local schools from A to D, Rey prays for a closing instead of a delayed opening. Finally, Chandrila High is announced.

Delayed opening.

Rey sighs disappointedly, but then “Wannabe” by the Spice Girls starts playing. She begins dancing around her room in her blue flannel pajama.

Last night sucked. Well, parts of it. The Ben part.

What _didn’t_ suck was hanging out with her friends. Meeting Jyn. Getting a piercing. Seeing a band live for the first time.

On the ride home, they had all shared their resolutions. Paige said she wants to get a 4.0 this semester. Rose wants to get a boyfriend (which she said while looking at Finn). Finn wants to get more into set design, maybe even write his own play.

When they asked what Rey’s resolution was, she said it was to get into college. Which is true, but it’s not her _only_ resolution.

For 1999, Rey vows to get over Ben Solo.

She’s sick of the hot and cold routine. She’s not going to wait around for him any longer, especially now that he’s made it clear he’s not ending things with Bazine. In a way, Rey feels kind of bad for the woman. Maybe he doesn’t consider kissing Rey in the tent on Christmas Eve cheating, but she does. Maybe it’s only cheating to those of a certain age; maybe once you're in your twenties, only sex is considered infidelity.

But whatever, she doesn’t care. He can do whatever he wants. She can do whatever she wants. It’s a new year, and she’s got plans—plans that don’t involve Ben Solo. She’s going to be the best Ophelia that the school’s ever seen. She’s going to get into college—maybe NYU or a performing arts school—and move far, far away from here. Somewhere where things happen.

If Ben can forget her so easily, then she can do the same. She doesn’t need him. She wants him, but she doesn’t _need_ him.

As Jyn told her drunkenly last night outside the club while chain-smoking Sobranie Black Russians, she’s _strong_ and _fierce_ and she should never forget it. It’s the ‘90s, and before you know it it’ll be the millennium, and you can be anything you want to be without the patriarchy holding you back.

Girl Power.

*

Blueberry waffles are the best, Rey decides.

They’re just Eggos—not homemade, even though Lupe volunteered to make her some. But Rey is totally fine with frozen waffles. In fact, they’re the best waffles she’s ever had. It might have something to do with not having eaten since yesterday afternoon, or the beer she drank last night. Or it could be that it’s a new day, a new year, and fuck Ben Solo. She washes it down with three cups of orange juice, smiling to herself as she puts the glass in the sink just as Ben comes into the kitchen, opens the fridge door and picks up the empty carton.

When she goes back up to her room, she puts Third Eye Blind in her CD player, sits in the window seat with her brand new sketchbook, pulls headphones over her messy hair, and hits PLAY. For the next two hours, she loses herself in drawing a cityscape—jutting skyscrapers in between boxy pre-war buildings. Her favorite part is coloring it in with the expensive Copic markers Leia had bought her for Christmas. Yellow windows glow against shades of blue.

Eventually, she has to get ready for school. She pulls on jeans, a white tee shirt, and an oversized brown-and-navy flannel shirt she can wrap around herself like a security blanket.

*

In fifth period physics, Mr. Akbar plays a reel of _Cosmic_ _Voyage_.

It flickers on the projection screen as eerie classical hums over colorful swirls of gases and the void of space. In the semi-darkness, students pass notes. Kaydel flips through _Cosmopolitan_. One guy sleeps.

For once, Rey doesn’t take notes. As she leans back against the wooden chair, she closes her eyes, feeling hypnotized. She tries not to think about Ben. She doesn’t want to think about Ben. She doesn’t want to think about what it was like seeing him make out with someone else. Or what it was like to kiss him herself. She wishes she never knew.

But behind her eyes, she sees them together. It’s like it’s been burned into her retinas.

Her eyes snap open. She pulls herself forward. Raises her hand. Mr. Akbar hands her the bathroom pass.

Thankfully, the second-floor girl’s bathroom is empty. Rey splashes cold water on her face, the sleeves of her flannel getting wet. As she stares into the smudged mirror—at her dewy and pale reflection, at the water drops on her eyelashes—the door swings open.

Rey pretends as if she wasn’t just having an existential crisis. She pulls out a few paper towels from the metal canister hanging on the wall as Kaydel opens one of the stall doors.

She never goes inside. Instead, she lingers a moment before turning back around to face Rey.

“Hey,” she says.

It takes a few seconds for Rey to realize she’s talking to her. “Um, hey.”

“So look. I just wanted to warn you. About Jamie. He’s… you can’t trust him.” When Rey doesn’t respond, she moves closer, leaning in as if they’re friends. “You know Gigi, right? Well she used to be my best friend, since like second grade. And he hooked up with her behind my back.”

Rey turns back to the mirror, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Oh. Um, I’m sorry to hear that. But—”

“Yeah, she—“

“—but I don’t know what that has to do with me.”

“Aren’t you, like, dating him now?”

Rey gets the feeling this is less of a friendly warning—less _girls-looking-out-for-each-other_ —and more of a way to suss out information.

“No, and I don’t know how that rumor got started. We’re just lab partners in bio.”

“And scene partners,” Kaydel points out. “Interesting how he's playing Hamlet now, when I know for a _fact_ Daniel Cherski was dying to play that role.”

Rey crosses her arms, rolling her eyes. “I really don’t know anything about that.”

As Kaydel looks at her shrewdly, Rey begins to wonder if there’s any truth to the rumors. Maybe Jamie really did pay off Alex and Daniel in order to get closer to her. It makes her blush—with embarrassment or pleasure, she’s not sure.

Kaydel pulls out a pink lipgloss from her purse and begins applying it in the mirror. “Like I said. Just… be careful.” She rubs her lips together to smooth it out, then caps the lipgloss, staring at her reflection for a long moment before finally looking back at Rey. “It really sucks to have the guy you love be into someone else.”

There’s a sadness in her eyes, lingering in her features, her lines. It echoes against the tile like a struck chord.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“That he hurt you.” Rey looks away, biting her lip as she wonders how much to say. How much is too much? How deep is too deep? “I know how it feels.”

Kaydel just stares at her.

Rey shakes her head as she picks at a thread coming loose from her sleeve. “Look, honestly, I’m not into Jamie. I’m…” She sighs. “I’m sort of in love with someone. Someone else.”

Kaydel raises a perfectly-coiffed, disbelieving eyebrow.

“He’s not in high school,” Rey explains further, for some inexplicable reason.

“Oh? Does he goes to Chandrila U?”

“No, he’s… he graduated. A couple years ago.” Then, quieter: “He’s twenty-six.”

“Wow, an older man. I’m impressed.”

“He’s with someone else.” Rey looks behind Kaydel, at the D.A.R.E. poster on the wall by the frosted window that’s so dirty it always gleams yellow, no matter what the weather. “So I, like, _get it._ ”

Kaydel nods. She then tilts her head, her eyes drifting up. “Have you ever considered dying your hair?”

“Oh! Um…”

“Come over to my house this weekend. I’ll dye it for you.” She links her arm through Rey’s, half-dragging her out the bathroom. “I’m thinking red. Like a deep red.”

They walk back to physics together.

*

Rey’s lying on her bed, eating a peanut butter sandwich and working on conjugating French verbs when she remembers she was supposed to meet up with Jamie after school to run lines.

She should have told him she needed a ride to his house. She could have asked Finn to drop her off. But now she’s home, her mouth full of peanut butter and she doesn’t have a way to get there.

She could ask Ben, she supposes. But when she had passed by his door earlier, she smelled the faint flowery skunk of weed seeping from underneath his door, along with the muffled strains of Bush’s “Comedown.” Even if he wasn’t stoned, he has had panic attacks driving ever since he drove his dad’s Falcon off a cliff, so she wasn’t about to ask him to drive her. Even if the fantasy of asking him to drive her to another guy’s house gives her a heady rush of pleasure.

An idea pops into her head.

She picks up the white cordless on her bedside table. Flips open her script of _Hamlet_ to the scrawled blue writing she might have read fifty or so times.

It rings three times before Jamie answers. “Hello?”

“Hey,” she says. “It’s Rey. Johnson. You know, from school?”

There’s a chuckle down the line. “Yeah, I know. Are you still coming over?”

Rey lies back on the bed. “I was actually thinking maybe you could come here?”

“Yeah, sure. Where do you live?”

Rey gives him the address. After she hangs up, she clutches the phone to her chest, staring up at an uneven patch of plaster on the ceiling. Faintly, she hears Ben’s music from down the hall.

As her nervousness and excitement grows, she looks down at her jeans, tee shirt, and flannel. Heads over to her closet. As she slides the hangers back and forth, she comes across a light button-up dress. Black, with sprawling white vines and large peach roses framed by green leaves.

She undresses then stops, taking a long moment to stare at her naked body in the oval brass mirror. She examines her small breasts, her flat stomach with the sparkling jewel, the shape of her hips and thighs that’s filled out with months of consistent food. But clearly Ben still sees her as girl and not a woman. A tomboy in jeans and flannel.

Rey slips the dress on. It hangs loose on her frame, the sleeves flowing to her elbows. She pairs it a dusty pink cardigan, the black knee-high socks she borrowed from Paige, and her trusty Docs. It’s the most pink she’s ever worn. Leia had bought it for her at the mall a month ago, and while it's pretty, Rey's not used to the color. Rey was never a pink girl—she's always lived in blues, greens, browns, blacks. Pink felt like a color that well-adjusted girls wore. Girls who never had to swing a bar at their foster father. Girls who never dumpster-dove. Girls who never ended up in a mental hospital.

As she peers at herself in the mirror, she tells herself this has nothing to do with Jamie. Or Ben. She just craves something different. A different color. A different style. Different music. She doesn't want to hear anything by Joy Division, or The Smiths, or anything that reminds her of Ben. She doesn’t want to listen to the records he bought her. She doesn’t want to think about why he picked this one or that; if there’s any hidden meanings or confessions of longing in the songs. She doesn't want to go mad trying to understand him anymore. She decides that Ben Solo is just as indecipherable to her as her French homework.

*

The doorbell rings an hour later.

When Rey gallops down the stairs, she trips over her boots and almost crashes directly into Ben as he’s going up. He reaches out instinctively, stopping her from tumbling forward. She suddenly finds herself in his arms, against his hard chest, his hands heavy on her back, the heat seeping through the thin fabric of her cardigan. Rey’s body must still think she’s falling, because her heart’s thumping and there’s a low drop in her stomach that just keeps going.

Ben’s grip loosens and he pulls back, though he’s still only millimeters away. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Rey whispers lowly, then clears her throat. “Yes. Thank you.”

He nods, his eyes sweeping down and then up again. “You look nice.”

In spite of herself, she smiles, forgetting that she’s meant to be aloof. As she feels herself flush warmly, she prays it’s not obvious. “Thanks.”

The doorbell rings again.

“That’s for me,” she says quietly, making no move to get it.

Ben glances behind him, at the frosted oval glass in the middle of the front door. Jamie’s a blur of peach, purple, black.

It takes a few more seconds and a lot of willpower, but Rey manages to pull away from Ben’s orbit, down the rest of the steps and into the foyer. She opens the door.

“Hey,” Jamie says, smiling. He’s shockingly not wearing his usual letterman jacket, but a leather jacket over a purple hoodie over a black tee, a black JanSport swung over one shoulder.

“Hey.” Rey smiles back. She steps aside to let him in, closing the door behind him. Glances up at the steps, where Ben is still standing, staring at them. “That’s my _foster_ _brother_ , Ben.”

“Oh, cool,” Jamie says, nodding to him. “Hey man.”

Ben just stares at him. After a few seconds, he turns to her. “I don’t think Leia would approve of you having boys in your room, Rey.”

“Well, Leia isn’t home, is she?”

A muscle in his clenched jaw jumps. “I don’t think you should be disobeying the rules.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not a rule.”

Ben takes a few slow steps down, closer. “I’m pretty sure it is.”

“You don’t get any say about what I do.” She turns to Jamie, who looks vaguely uncomfortable. “Did you want something to drink?”

“No, I’m okay.”

“Great. Why don’t we go up to my room?”

“Sure.”

“Or actually… how about I show you where I usually hang out? It’s a tent up in the attic.”

Rey forces herself to keep her eyes on Jamie. But still she sees Ben out of the corner of her eye, like an eclipse she can’t help but stare at even though she knows she shouldn’t.

She grabs Jamie’s hand. Moves past Ben up the steps. Her eyes are kept straight ahead, because she knows she’s going to stumble again the second she looks back.

Up in the attic, the string lights flicker for a second before blazing on.

“Wow,” Jamie says as she lifts open the yellow nylon flap. He follows close behind.

It's too quiet. The awkwardness between them is made even more apparent in the silence. Rey swoops down over to the records and starts flipping through the spines, trying to find something— _anything_ —that doesn’t remind her of Ben. But it’s impossible. He bought every single one for her. He put together everything. Every detail. Every atom of his energy is imprinted here—in the grooves of the vinyl, in the creases in the blankets and pillowcases, in the careful criss-crossing arrangement of the lights. It hangs over her, just as much as the art prints taped to the nylon walls— _The Kiss_ by Gustav Klimt, _Skull of a Skeleton with Burning Cigarette_ by Van Gogh, a few from Picasso’s Blue Period.

Coming up here was a mistake.

Jamie sits down on the cot, his backpack at his feet. He takes off his jacket, then unzips his backpack, pulling out his script.

“So that guy…” he says, flipping through the pages. “Is he really your brother?”

Rey busies herself reading the back of New Order’s Power, Corruption & Lies. “Foster brother. Yeah.”

"He doesn’t act like it.” He chuckles. “Sure he’s not your boyfriend?”

“Sure Kaydel’s not your girlfriend?”

“Yeah, that’s over. She just can’t get over it. Besides…” He looks directly at Rey, in a way that Ben never does. “I like someone else.”

Rey blushes. “So, um… I left my script downstairs.”

They head to her room.

Ben’s door is closed, but there’s no music playing. This strikes her as odd. Ben always has music playing. Is he trying to listen in on them? Or did he leave, go to Bazine's?

When Jamie enters her room, she realizes it’s the first time she’s had another boy in her room. Well, besides Ben. Not even Finn has been over—they always hang out at Rose’s house. It feels strangely exciting.

It feels like she’s seventeen.

*

 _“Ay, truly, for the power of beauty will sooner transform honesty from what it is to a bawd than the force of honesty can translate beauty into his likeness. This was sometime a paradox, but now the time gives it proof.”_ Jamie recites while sitting on her bed, facing her. He stops. Pauses. Looks deep into her eyes. Rey’s never noticed before how blue they are. _“I did love you once.”_

Rey feels lost in those dark blue irises, like the bottom of the sea. She snaps herself out of it, looking back down at the script. _“Indeed, my lord… you made me believe so.”_

“Did you want to take a break?” he asks. “Grab a coffee? Maybe see a movie?”

Rey bites her lip. Does she?

“Yeah, sure.” She nods. “I’d love to.”

It’s not a date, right? It’s just two friends hanging out. She watches movies all the time with Finn and Rose, and she’s not dating _them_. She’s not dating Jamie. There’s no truth to those rumors. She didn't lie to Kaydel.

Outside, dusk bleeds into night, the snow glowing a pale blue in the Prussian Blue darkness. Stars twinkle down through thin, translucent clouds. The sharp, crisp smell of cold fills Rey's lungs when Jamie brushes the small of her back, leading her over to his green Mazda. As he opens the passenger door for her, she tells herself he’s just being nice. Polite. He doesn't like her like that.

When he turns the key in the ignition and looks over and smiles, a thought suddenly occurs to her.

Does _she_ like _him_?

*

It’s snowing again.

The flurries drift past the windshield as the wipers rhythmically move back and forth. It’s dark, the only light coming from the headlights and glow of the console. It casts shadows upon Jamie’s face, and as he glances at her, his eyes look even more smoldering in the dimness. The car smells like lemon tree air freshener and something else, something spicy and _boy_. It’s a different smell from Ben—cleaner, sharper. Like citrus and vetiver. A hint of a salty breeze from the Atlantic.

Ben has always smelled like a man. Spicy too, but warmer. Smoky and earthy—and not just because of his Rebel cigarettes and weed. More like campfires and woods and petrichor.

Rey turns up the dial on the radio to drown out her thoughts of how Ben smells. How he tastes. How he feels.

Strains of “All I Want” by Toad the Wet Sprocket fill the car as it continues to glide down the dark, empty streets of Chandrila, the pine trees and snow blurring past, into the glittering lights of downtown Hanna City.

*

It’s a choice between _The Faculty_ and _You’ve Got Mail_.

As Rey stares up at the cinema marquee with Jamie, she already knows what he’s going to pick. So it’s a shock when, as he buys both tickets at the counter, he returns with stubs reading _You’ve Got Mail_.

Okay, so maybe this _is_ a date after all.

It occurs to Rey then that this is her first. She used to think that hanging out with Ben counted—all the movies they’ve watched on the couch in the living room together. All the times they’ve smoked in his room, listening to records. Even the one time they went to Resistance Records and then Empire Diner.

But this... this feels different.

She likes Jamie, she’ll admit it. He’s hot. So she doesn’t love him, but she doesn’t think she could ever love anybody the way she loves Ben. No one could ever come close to touching her heart the way he has. But she likes Jamie. She does.

Still, she’s not ready.

When Jamie reaches for her hand in the darkened theater, she grabs a handful of popcorn instead.

*

The car has a flat.

Rey’s sitting awkwardly in the passenger seat, thankful her hands are wrapped around a cup of steaming hot chocolate with whipped cream. Jamie’s outside on the curb staring at the passenger-side front tire, but finally he gets back in the car, the cold air whooshing as he opens and closes the door.

“Damn it,” he says, running a hand back and forth through his messy brown hair, which juts out haphazardly. “I don’t have an extra tire. I guess we’re going to have to go back to the coffee shop and use their phone.”

“I have one." Rey pulls out her Nokia from her jacket pocket and hands it to him.

As he dials a number and holds it up to his ear, his fingers tap on the steering wheel. He hangs up. Dials again. “Shit,” he says. “My parents must not be home.”

There’s several people Rey could call right now. Leia, Finn. Even Amilyn. But when she takes the phone back from Jamie, there’s only one series of numbers her fingers press, almost of their own accord.

Half an hour later, the cherry red Camaro pulls in behind them.

Ben steps out, a black beanie on top his head, dark waves peeking out. He’s dressed all in black, too—black jeans, black hoodie, black wool coat. It matches the dark circles under his eyes and glare he’s directing towards them.

Without a word, he opens the trunk and lifts out a tire. Bounces it down on the sidewalk in front of them.

“I got it, man,” Jamie says, making a move towards it.

Ben scowls. “If you weren't smart enough to make sure you had a spare tire, I sure as hell don’t trust you to change it.”

“Ben—“ Rey starts.

“Hey man, what’s your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem,” Ben mutters, his back to them now, grabbing a lug wrench from the Camaro's trunk.

Jamie gives her a look. Rey just presses her lips together and shrugs apologetically.

While Ben squats down to change the tire, his breath huffing clouds into the freezing January night, Rey can’t help but watch him. The contrast between him and Jamie is striking. Jamie is a boy. Ben is a _man_.

 _A man who doesn’t want you_ , she reminds herself. _Not_ your _man. Bazine’s._

With that thought gnawing in her mind, metastasizing into her chest where her heart lies, she feels her fingers brush Jamie’s. They’re numb from the chill, but still she can feel his skin. His hand grasps hers, and as he looks down at her, he smiles.

It really is a nice smile. He’s nice. He might be exactly what she needs right now.

Rey leans forward. Presses her lips gently against his.

It’s the first kiss she’s had since Ben. Ever since their first kiss in the rain when they were in the hospital, she’d never thought she’d ever kiss another. But here she is, standing on the sidewalk of downtown Hanna City, the streetlamps and shopfronts and neon signs glowing all round, and Ben changing a tire right in front of her.

The tinny clang of the lug wrench falling onto the pavement echoes down the street.

Rey pulls away from Jamie and looks down at Ben, who is still crouched down, his left knee on the ground. The second their eyes connect, before she can analyze what she finds there, he’s looking down again.

And then he’s grabbing the lug wrench again, changing the bolts with frantic bursts of movement, like he can’t wait to get the fuck out of there. _Stupid teenagers_ , he must be thinking. _Can’t even take care of a flat tire._

“Thank you,” Rey says to his back when he stalks back to the Camaro. It might have been muffled by the slamming of the trunk, because he doesn’t respond.

Instead, he opens the driver’s side door and slams that too, and then he’s peeling out onto the street without so much as waiting for passing traffic. Without so much as a “be back at ten” or “I’ll see you at home.”

Back in the car, with the heat blasting through the vents and Oasis’s “Wonderwall” playing, Jamie kisses her again. This time, his tongue presses insistently between her lips. She opens for him. He tastes like popcorn and cappuccino.

It’s nice.

So what if it’s not electric? So what if she’s not in love with him? Sometimes the people you love aren’t good for you. Maybe Jamie is good for her; maybe he isn’t. But she knows Ben isn’t. And obsessing about Ben isn’t good, either.

It’s a new year, she’s got a new piercing, new friends, a maybe-new boyfriend, and all-in-all, this isn’t the worst New Year’s she had. For the first time in her life, she’s looking forward to the future.

As Jamie sucks on her neck, his hand slides up her dress, hot and ticklish on the sensitive skin of her thigh. She casually moves it back down to her knee.

*

It’s almost midnight by the time Rey quietly puts the key in the lock and turns it, closing the door softly behind her. As she sneaks up the stairs and down the hallway, she pauses in front of Ben’s door, listening for him or his music. But there’s nothing—only darkness and silence.

She never hears the strains of music drifting weakly from above.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my HC, Ben hung the art prints in the tent for Rey:
> 
> 1\. _The Kiss_ , Gustav Klimt = that one’s obvious  
> 2\. _Skull of a Skeleton with Burning Cigarette_ , Van Gogh = nod to Ben’s addictions  
> 3\. a few from Picasso’s Blue Period = somber works painted in the period between 1901 and 1904, oft depicting prostitutes, beggars, and drunks. Reflective of Ben’s mental state/depression.
> 
> [inspiration for Rey's dress](https://c2.staticflickr.com/8/7906/47124072901_974460cbd4_o.jpg)
> 
> **Next chapter:** "Bittersweet Symphony" by The Verve


	13. How Is Your Heart?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me, actually updating on schedule!
> 
> So this chapter might actually be my favorite so far. You can probably guess why at the end. Now I know the mention of Bazine might make you want to skip over this one, but _please_ keep reading. It's very important for the story. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for your support.

_No change, I can change_  
_I can change, I can change_  
_But I'm here in my mold_  
_I am here in my mold_  
_But I'm a million different people_  
_From one day to the next_  
_I can't change my mold  
_ _No, no, no, no, no_

_Have you ever been down?_

_“Bittersweet Symphony” by The Verve_

* * *

 

 **ASPEN** is printed in bold black font on the boarding pass. As Ben stares at it, he thinks it isn’t far enough away. Nowhere is far enough. Instead of tucking it safely in his carry-on bag or in the folds of his passport, he uses it as a coaster.

“Ugh,” Baz says, rolling her eyes as she slides onto the stool next to him at the airport bar. “I can’t believe this delay. We should have flown private.”

“Mmm,” Ben says in response.

She narrows her eyes, pointedly looking at his rocks glass. “Maybe you should cool it with the drinking.”

“Like you’re one to talk,” he mumbles as he knocks back the last of his scotch. “You drink more vodka than the entirely of Russia combined.”

Baz glares. “Can you at least pretend to want to go? You know how much means to me.”

Ben sighs, rubbing his eyes. “I know.”

“And you did promise.”

“I know.”

Seemingly satisfied, Baz leans back, then snaps at the bartender who is drying glasses nearby. “Vodka gimlet.”

" _Please,_ " Ben adds to her order, earning another glare.

“Besides, I thought you liked Hux.”

“He’s okay.” He shrugs. “A little pretentious.”

Baz rolls her eyes. “And you’re not?”

Ben concedes she might have a point. Just as the bartender places her drink down, a voice on the overhead speakers announces that Flight 347 to Aspen is now boarding. Baz gets up without a word, walks a few steps, then turns around to glare at Ben as if he’s an assistant who should be following her.

Ben places a twenty on the bar. Looks at Baz, then back at the bartender. Adds another ten on top.

*

The snow has finally cleared enough for lift-off.

As Ben leans back in the first class aisle seat, which is more of a leather recliner, he tries not to think of several things. One: Rey. Two: Rey’s new boyfriend, who seems to think he lives at their house now. Every afternoon he’s there, eating the last of the Pringles and calling him “man.” Three: That this kid is definitely a bad influence on her. Her hair is now a dark, vibrant red, and every time they disappear into her room—with the door closed and maybe even locked, though Ben hasn’t stooped low enough to try the handle—there’s shitty alt rock playing.

Ben stands and reaches up into the overhead bin. From inside his brown leather bag, he pulls out his CD player, headphones, and Bukowski. He actually brought most of his Bukowski collection with him, along with his Moleskine notebook, where he’s begun writing terrible poetry after hitting a wall with his terrible novel. As he zips up his bag, he spots the copy of Tolstoy's _War and Peace_ he’d purchased in the airport bookstore. For a three-day stay, this might have been ambitious.

He’s also pretty sure at this point there’s more books than clothes in his suitcase.

Ben sits back down, ignoring the glare from his girlfriend as he pulls his headphones on. Radiohead’s “Talk Show Host” plays airily as he closes his eyes.

When the flight attendant leans down and touches his shoulder, he orders another scotch.

*

Baz is leaned back in her seat, an eye mask on and her window closed. Ben wishes he could see the sky. Instead, he reads.

**oh, yes**

there are worse things than  
being alone  
but it often takes decades  
to realize this  
and most often  
when you do  
it's too late  
and there's nothing worse  
than  
too late.

*

Wolf Creek Lodge is a sprawling ski resort nestled in the snow-capped Rocky Mountains of Colorado. A mix of modern and rustic architecture, and all luxury. The reception area has wide windows showcasing the mountains, which are so picturesque, it’s almost fake—like a photograph with the saturation dialed all the way up. It’s beautiful, Ben will admit. He still doesn’t want to go skiing, though.

A bellhop pulls a brass cart with their luggage to their room. Ben kept saying he could carry it—it was only three bags, after all—but another look from Baz and his tongue was bit again. It seems he can’t do anything right, so he stops trying.

Everything is earth-toned. Brown leather couches surround a stone fireplace in the center of the living room. The walls are covered in wood panels, but not the cheap ‘70s kind. Abstract paintings hang on the walls, which are really just overlapping rectangles or thick strokes of paint. Ben can’t help but think Rey is a way better artist than whoever did these.

As the bellhop pulls the cord of the beige curtains, they jerkingly slide open to reveal a decent view of the mountains and trees. Dusk has fallen, casting everything in a pale blue light. The snows glows turquoise.

Baz doesn’t even look out the window. She immediately disappears into the bedroom, leaving Ben to tip the bellhop. He gives him extra for Baz’s loud whisper on how sad it is when grown men still work in a job where a uniform is required, which the bellhop certainly overheard.

As he plops his carry-on duffel down onto the plush cream carpet, he sighs heavily, still feeling the weight of something more on his shoulders.

He hadn’t wanted to come. Baz had been pestering him about taking a trip when they were together the first time, so he sort of felt like he owed it to her. And then her friend Phasma had mentioned on some girl’s night that she and her boyfriend Hux—who he only just started hanging out with, but seems cool—were taking this trip here. And then Baz wouldn’t shut up about it until he agreed to go, too. He said no several times, but then everything with Rey happened, and one plane and taxi ride later and here he was, in the fifth circle of hell which he’s convinced is populated by those with neon nylon space suits and smiles surgically attached.

Does he even look like a skier? What the fuck made Baz look at him—band shirts, flannel, hoodies, the lingering smelling of cigarettes and weed—and think, yes, that’s someone athletically-inclined.

Ben wishes he had weed now. Obviously it wouldn’t have made it through the airport, so these three days are going to be the longest he’s gone without it, save for the hospital.

He eyes the minibar in the corner.

*

Dinner is awkward, to say the least. He doesn’t know Phasma well, having only met her once before at some swanky soirée she threw at her penthouse in December. He met Hux then and they’ve hung out a few times here and there, usually just shooting pool and having a few beers at Mos Eisley. It’s not a deep friendship—it’s more revolved around their common tendency to be awkward, unsociable, and taciturn. But it’s a nice change from either hanging out with Baz all the time, or being by himself, shut up in his room where the days bleed into each other and he thinks too much. Rey is no longer an option to waste time with. He no longer trusts himself, especially after the kiss on Christmas Eve. He doesn’t want to hurt her. And he doesn’t want to hurt himself. And being around her all the time… it hurts.

What hurts even more, however, is this dinner.

“So, what is it you do again?” Phasma asks while cutting her salmon into tiny pieces.

Ben takes a large bite of his cheeseburger, making sure to take his time chewing. Phasma just stares at him until he finally swallows. “I’m unemployed,” he says. “Vagrant.”

Baz touches his arm. “He’s a writer,” she says, smiling apologetically. “He’s actually almost finished with his debut novel, isn’t that right darling?”

Ben takes another bite, responding with food in his mouth. “Nope. Only fifty-two pages.”

“What’s it about?” Phasma asks.

“Mental illness. A wealthy family. Quirky, coming-of-age. That sort of thing.”

“How…” Phasma waves her hand vaguely in the air. “…Salinger-esque.”

Ben shrugs. Takes another bite.

“It’s really good,” Baz says, even though he’s never shown her a page. “Plus, Daddy said he’ll publish it.”

This is news to Ben. He turns to her. “What?”

“I told you that, silly. You know he’s President and Publisher at HarperCollins.”

“I want to do this on my own.”

“We can talk about this later,” she hisses in that way where she’s still smiling.

Phasma hums as she finally takes a bite of her salmon, reminding him of the way someone would chew popcorn at a dramatic moment. Hux just keeps eating his filet mignon.

“But your family is quite wealthy, are they not?” Phasma continues.

Ben shifts in his seat. “Yes.”

“So you really needn’t worry about money.”

“I guess not.” He clears his throat. Takes a sip of mineral water.

Phasma nods, watching him.

“You should write screenplays,” Hux says, not looking at him or anyone but his steak.

“I wouldn’t want my work cut up.”

“But it pays rather well. My friend Mitaka got six figures for _Shark Explosion._ "

Ben squints. “Like, the sharks explode or…”

Baz grips his arm again, her manicured nails digging into his flesh even through his hoodie. “It’s going to be the next Great American Novel, I know it.”

Ben wonders if she really believes that, or if this is just a performance to build him up to be someone worthy of her in front of her friends. Either way, he doesn’t care. He’s never pretended to be anything he isn’t. And he’s never pretended this was anything other than what it was. He’s beginning to think going on this trip was a bad idea. Did he accidentally give her hope? Did he accidentally take things to “the next level” the second his name was printed on that boarding pass?

Baz leans into his space, clearly hoping for a kiss. He takes another bite of his cheeseburger instead.

She kisses him on the cheek, improvising when her scene partner is not sticking to the script.

*

When they get back to their room, all Ben wants to do is drink and pretend he’s back in his room at home. But Baz wants to go into the hot tub with Phasma and Hux, which Ben thinks is just a glorified bath with other people.

“No thanks,” he says, already pouring the contents of Johnny Walker Blue into a crystal tumbler. “But have fun.”

Baz has her hands on her bikini-bottomed hips. “So you’re just going to lie here and mope all weekend?”

“Actually, I’m going to read.” He shrugs. “Maybe write a little.”

She sighs, deep and dramatically. “Fine, whatever. See you when I get back.” She kisses him on the cheek. “Love you.”

Ben hums a _mhmm._

“And Ben?” she says ties her silk robe. “Don’t drink too much. If I wanted to come alone, I would have.”

“Maybe you should’ve,” he mumbles, but fifteen seconds too late and the door is already closed.

*

Ben is drunk.

The room is wavering like he’s on ship, and there’s the rise of bile in his chest and throat, and it’s really, _really_ warm in here. As he pulls off his shirt and flops down on the bed, he thinks of the poem he wrote earlier. It needs tweaking, but he’ll need to work on it in the sober light of day, when sentimentality is cleared from his veins along with the alcohol.

Sometime indeterminate amount of time later, Baz slips into bed with him. Her skin smells of jasmine and chlorine. She always wears perfume to bed, perhaps as a way to tempt him to fuck her. It’s cloying, and the chemical odor beneath it makes him think of something very wrong beneath the seductive temptation.

She rubs her hand down his chest, down to his stomach. Her touch is cold against his burning skin. He shivers.

“Not tonight,” he mumbles. “Don’t feel so well.”

Baz sighs, removing her hand. “I told you not to drink so much.”

“Sorry.”

“We haven’t made love in _weeks._ "

Ben opens his eyes, staring up at the ceiling. “Sorry.”

Baz sits up. He can’t see her face—only her long chestnut waves, the dim light catching on her pale skin and lavender silk negligee. “You’re not sleeping with someone else, are you?”

“No.”

She turns her head, looking down at him. “It’s not… It’s nothing to do with that girl who lives with you, is it?”

Ben’s heart has suddenly started pounding in his chest. No one has ever caught on how he’s felt before. Not even Leia, or at least, he prays to god not. Here he thought he was doing a decent job of hiding it, of burying it so deep down that no one could ever accuse him of feeling anything other than a general concern for the well-being of an orphan in the foster care system. As much concern as he might feel for the title character while reading _Oliver Twist._

“No.”

Baz raises an eyebrow. “I don’t believe you.”

Ben closes his eyes. Swallows thickly. Fills his lungs deeply. When he opens his eyes again, he reaches out, moving his fingertips up her back, over the silk to where it swoops low on her bony back. She just stares at him, perhaps suspiciously so, but then she’s leaning down over him slowly, sinking into him the way the same way he sinks into denial.

When he fucks her that night, he does so from behind. As she moans like a porn star on her knees and elbows, he pretends her body belongs to another.

*

Morning brings slow flurries like powdered sugar.

Baz is zipped up in a puffy white nylon coat with fur trim and black pants. She has a black fur headband on and black gloves, which grip her expensive ski poles. For a second there, as Ben lies in bed and squints at the offending sunlight, he thinks she’s going to hit him with it.

“Are you coming?”

Ben laughs. A harsh, gravelly sound. God, he’s thirsty. “Did you actually think I was going to go skiing?”

“I thought you might, yeah. Hence the _ski trip._ "

“Baz…” He sits up, instantly regretting it when the vein in his temple pulses painfully. “I read. I write. I listen to records and ruminate over my past failings. I don't _ski._ "

She sighs, shaking her head. “Fine. Stay in here all day, see if I care. In fact, don’t even bother to leave the room.”

“Sounds infinitely better than spending even one more second with Phasma.”

“Don’t insult my friends.”

“I’m not.” Ben shrugs. “I just think she’s a cunt.”

Baz glares. A few long seconds pass as a muscle in her jaw jumps. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Dress nicely, because we’re going for lunch at a French restaurant in town.”

“Yeah, I think I’m just going to order room service.”

This time, Baz doesn’t say “I love you” as she leaves. He doesn’t notice.

*

The blinding snow is not good for a hangover. The biting cold is, however. It wakes Ben up, refreshes him, makes him feel alive. That and the coffee currently warming his gloveless hands. It’s actually pretty good—beans fresh and French-pressed. Maybe one good thing has come from this trip after all, though the price of the airfare and room makes it one expensive cup of coffee.

Ben grips a cigarette butt with his lips from inside his soft pack of Rebels, sliding it out. As it dangles from his lips he pats his hoodie pockets, searching for a lighter. He can’t find it. Baz probably took it to light some scented candle or some shit.

There’s a tiny flash of orange out of the corner of his eye.

A poor, mangey, scrawny little orange cat is picking at shreds of meat on a chicken bone spilled out from one of the garbages next to the dumpster. As Ben watches, a wave of compassion washes over him. It’s like an ASCPA commercial.

“Here boy,” he whistles, then makes the universal _ssspssspsssp_ sound to get a cat’s attention.

The cat ignores him at first, but after realizing there’s no more meat, he struts over to where Ben is standing, his tail straight and high in the air. He rubs against his jean leg.

Ben leans down and rubs him around the chin. “You must be cold little guy.”

The cat purrs.

“Yeah, you don’t belong here any more than I do, do you?” Ben picks the cat up. Squints at him. “I think I’ll name you Bukowski. Or B for short.” The cat continues to purr. “Hello my little BB.”

When Ben heads back inside with the Cheetos-orange cat wrapped up in his black hoodie, he glares at everyone he passes, daring them to say anything. As soon he gets back to his room, he picks up the heavy black receiver and connects to room service, ordering a steak for himself and salmon for BB.

It arrives with silver lids and a red rose in a vase.

*

As the snow picks up, Ben lies back on the couch with his notebook opened to a fresh page. The fire is crackling in the fireplace with BB in front of it, curled up on top of a cashmere sweater Ben took from Baz’s suitcase.

The words won’t come.

The ideas are there—the feelings. The way the early morning light looks painted in the stillness of dawn. The way the air smells before it snows. There’s a glimpse of _something more_ in all of it. Something he can’t quite grasp. The flicker of it, just like the flicker of greatness he can sometimes see before it gets snuffed out.

After an hour passes and there’s more crossed-out words than actual words, Ben gives up and fixes himself a drink. He pours water from a bottle of Evian into the other crystal tumbler for BeeBee.

It hits him then that he never told anyone he was leaving.

_Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck._

Ben picks up the phone and dials his home number. He can already imagine the angry lecture he’s going to get from Leia. No, worse than angry— _disappointed._ She’ll bring up that time he ran away from home when he was thirteen, even though he’s pretty sure playing Atari in Poe’s basement doesn’t really count as being a homeless runaway out on the cold, mean streets. God, he really hopes she didn’t call the police.

The phone rings three times.

“Hello?”

Oh no. Not Rey. He’s not prepared for this.

Ben clears his throat. “Hi.”

A long silence. Ben imagines it hanging heavy down the spiral white cord of Leia’s phone in the hallway, spanning across the country through invisible radio waves to the black spiral cord of the hotel phone. All 2,343 miles. Ben can almost see it in his mind like a map.

“Are you there?”

“WHAT THE FUCK BEN.”

“Rey—“

“WHAT THE FUCK.”

“I know.” Then, because it never hurts: “I’m sorry.”

“Where are you?! Leia’s been freaking out. She’s called you a million times—“

“My Nokia died. I forgot to bring the charger—“

“—and when you didn’t come home last night, she called the cops and filed a missing person’s report. We thought you got into an accident, or that you—“ She suddenly stops, and for a few seconds, Ben thinks maybe the line went dead.

“That I what?” He runs a hand through his hair as he paces around the room. “Tried to kill myself?”

“Well… it wouldn’t exactly be unheard of, would it?”

“Yeah, I know. Look, I’m sorry. I’m in Aspen. I…“ Ben looks at BB. “I got you a cat.”

The silence on the other end is deafening.

_“What?”_

“Yeah, his name’s BB.” Pause. “He’s orange, with a white chest—“

The line clicks dead. Ben pretends it was the snow affecting the connection.

*

Ben dreams of an ocean. Dark, rolling waves that pull him under every time he breaches the surface. He only manages a few gasps of air before seaweed and old-fashioned scuba divers drag him down. The kind that’s at the bottom of a fish tank. He can even feel the water on his skin.

Another splash.

No, wait. That’s actual water.

Ben opens his eyes. Baz is looming over him on the couch, an empty glass in her hand. “That’s for BeeBee,” he mumbles, still half asleep.

“What the hell is this?!” Baz seethes.

“A cat.” He sits up, rubbing the water off his face.

“No, _I know that_ , thank you. Which I have no idea why you brought a disgusting stray into our five-star hotel room. But what I mean is…” She shoves his notebook in his face. “What. The. Hell. Is. _This._ "

“My notebook.” He glares. “My _private_ notebook.”

Baz flips through the pages. _“‘If this is the end / and even if it’s not / it will be someday / then I want you to know / you’re on my fingertips as I / touch another / and my tongue / as I kiss another / and my mind / fucked-up as it is / and my heart / most of all my heart / and all the spaces / between what we were and / what remains.’"_

Ben cringes at his poetry being read aloud. He already knows it’s shit, but to hear it being recited by Baz… He snatches the notebook from her. “Did I fucking give you permission to read my private fucking stuff?”

Baz crosses her arms. “Don’t change the subject. I know who these poems are about. It was a dead giveaway when one of them is titled ‘Rey.’”

Ben starts heading towards the bedroom, looking around for BeeBee. Poor thing must be frightened with all the fighting. A hand on his arm yanks him back.

“I knew it. I fucking knew it. The way you look at her. The way you get so defensive of her. It’s fucking sick. _You’re_ fucking sick.”

“It’s none of your business,” he replies coldly. “And don’t touch me.”

“Believe me, I won’t. Ever again. This?” She motions back and forth between them. “It’s done. It’s over. You don’t think there’s tons of guys I could be with? _Real_ men. Men who don’t sulk around all day. Who actually do something with their lives. Who don’t lust after young girls.”

“She’s seventeen,” he defends, though he doesn’t know why. “A few months away from eighteen.”

“Jesus,” she mutters. “You sound like you’re counting down.”

“You know, this entire thing is rich coming from you. Considering what happened with Poe.”

“How many times are you going to bring that up? Our relationship was essentially over by that time. You barely even left the house. You didn’t talk to me sometimes for _weeks_.”

Ben shrugs. “You still cheated.”

“And you’re fucking some kid.”

“I’m not.”

“But you want to.”

Silence. It’s all the confirmation Baz needs. 

“You know what? I don’t regret what happened with Poe. In fact, I’m sorry it ended with him. At least _he_ wouldn’t be counting down to when he could stick his dick in a child.” Baz shakes her head in false sympathy. “Maybe you should go back to the hospital. It really seems you’re a lot sicker than everyone thought.”

Ben stares down at her, invading her space. “While we’re on the topic of what’s sick... I want you to know that every time I touch you, _it makes me want to fucking puke._ "

He knew it was coming. He knew it was coming the way the sky looks before a storm. The sound of her hand connecting with his cheek and jaw echoes in the hotel room. His vision sparks.

Ben doesn't say anything. Not a word. He slowly packs whatever was left out, though most of his things were left in his bags. He lures the cat out from under the bed. With his carry-on swung on one shoulder, his suitcase handle in his left hand, and BB under his right arm, he leaves room 184, slamming the door behind him and throwing the key against it.

He calls for a taxi in the phone booth in the hotel lobby. When he reaches the airport, he requests one ticket to Chandrila, Maine and one carrier for a cat. Yes, he tells the clerk at the ticket counter. He knows it’s an extra charge. That’s okay.

*

The lights from city grids glitter like computer chips from the window seat at 15,000 feet. Ben pulls on his headphones and hits PLAY. The strings of The Verve’s “Bittersweet Symphony” start as the plane ascends higher, higher. At cruising altitude of 38,000 feet, the only things he can see are wisps of clouds and darkness.

He leans his head back against the headrest and smiles.

*

**How Is Your Heart**

And to walk across the floor  
to an old dresser  
with a cracked mirror -  
see myself, ugly,  
grinning at it all.

What matters most  
is how well you walk  
through the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bye Baz. 
> 
> My favorite part is that he’s having a romantic meal with his cat. And believe me, he enjoyed it more than any meal with Baz. 
> 
> Who else wants to see Shark Explosion? *raises hand*
> 
> "oh, yes" and "How Is Your Heart" are both from Charles Bukowski.
> 
> I’ll finish replying to comments in the next few days. 🖤
> 
>  **Next chapter:** "Lovesong" by The Cure


	14. Lovesong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Aisling for beta'ing! 🖤

_Whenever I'm alone with you_  
_You make me feel like I am home again_  
_Whenever I'm alone with you_  
_You make me feel like I am whole again_

 _Whenever I'm alone with you_  
_You make me feel like I am young again_  
_Whenever I'm alone with you_  
_You make me feel like I am fun again_

_"Lovesong" by The Cure_

* * *

 

Valentine's Day is in four days, but as it falls on a Sunday, the dance is in two.

Not that anyone could forget, with glittery balloon letters and hearts on red and pink construction paper covering every square inch of Chandrila High. Rey thinks they might even be scented with some 99 cent drugstore body spray.

As Rose chatters about some gossip she overheard earlier in the second floor girl’s bathroom, Finn is furiously writing an essay that’s due in three minutes against one of the dented gray lockers lining the halls. Rey's only half-listening, growing more and more frustrated as she attempts her locker combo for the third time. The bloody thing won't open, and she's pissed off at it and herself and Ben and the stupid greeting-card holiday that seems personally out to get her. As she wonders if anyone would _really_ miss the signs if they were to be mysteriously ripped down, the locker finally creaks open.

A folded-up college-ruled piece of paper flutters out onto the scuffed linoleum.

Rey bends down to pick it up, but before she can, a manicured hand with a charm bracelet jangling down snatches it first. She looks up to find Kaydel smirking down at her.

“What do we have here?” she teases as she unfolds it. “Do you have a secret admirer?”

Rey straightens up and goes to grab it back, but Kaydel is quicker. She can feel her face burning as she watches Kaydel’s eyes scan whatever is written on it.

“‘I thought about you all day yesterday at practice,’” Kaydel reads, quirking an eyebrow. She looks back at Rey. “What sport does he play?”

Rey’s mind goes blank as she tries to think of a sport. Any sport. _Not_ basketball. “Um…”

“Actually…” Rose quickly snatches the note from Kaydel. “That’s mine.”

Kaydel looks like she wants to laugh, but she manages to bite her pink lipgloss-stained lip in time. “Oh really? Well, what sport does your lover play then?”

“Swimming.” Rose smiles saccharinely. “What can I say? I love those speedos.”

“ _Really._ ”

“Really.”

“What’s his name?”

“We’re playing it cool.” Rose shrugs one shoulder. “Only our closest friends know. So.”

For once, Kaydel looks speechless. For a full five seconds. She turns to Rey. “Anyway. Are you going to the dance?”

Rey turns back to her locker, pretending to busy herself in looking for a nonexistent textbook. “Oh, I don’t know. I don't think so?”

“I can get you a date if no one’s asked you. Kyle and Holly just broke up, so I know he’s free. Oh! Zach isn’t going with anyone I don’t think—”

“I think I’m just going to stay home,” Rey says as she grabs her calc book, even though she already had calc two periods ago.

Kaydel looks like she’s about to protest, but then a group of girls that Rey recognizes as popular passes by. “Okay, well, I’ll talk to Kyle and get back to you.” She air-kisses Rey’s cheek and then she’s flouncing off down the hall after them.

Rose hands Rey the note.

“Thanks,” she smiles sheepishly, tucking it into her notebook.

“No problem.” Rose scrunches her eyebrows. “Look… I mean, it’s not like I like Kaydel or anything, but you really should tell her.”

Rey shuts her locker, then slouches against it, sighing. “I know, I know. I will. I’m just… waiting for the right time.”

Rose and Finn share a look.

“I will soon. Promise.”

The bell rings.

*

The school lunches aren’t exactly restaurant quality, but they’re certainly better than the slop Rey’s been served at group homes. At least here, she doesn’t have to worry about someone stealing her food, or getting a nasty bruise and a stern lecture for the crime of defending it. And it’s infinitely better than the food at Plutt’s, which typically consisted of frozen fish sticks he would actually count and mark in Sharpie on the bag, and a fridge full of nothing but beer and condiments. Sometimes Leia packs Rey’s lunch, but as Rey hasn’t quite acquired a taste for sushi or foie gras yet, she prefers it when Leia hands her money instead.

Today it’s sloppy joe on a whole wheat bun, with a side of steamed broccoli and carrots. As Rey goes to grab a waxy carton of skim milk out of the ice, her hand collides with another.

“Sorry,” a familiar voice says. “Oh, hey!”

Rey glances up, into the dark blue eyes she’s begun to know even better than the warm brown ones of another. “Hey,” she says cooly, breezily. Just a casual greeting from one classmate to another.

The line moves down. They shuffle along with it.

“Did you get my note?”

Rey stares ahead at the cups of peaches and grapes. Pretends to consider deeply which one she wants, as if it’s an existential question. “Mhm.”

“And…?”

She grabs peaches. “We’ll talk about it after school.”

Jamie sighs. “Fine.” He pulls out a ten and hands it to the cashier. “That’s for both,” he says as he motions towards Rey’s tray.

“No, that’s okay,” Rey protests.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “I can’t even buy my girlfriend lunch?”

“Shhh,” she warns, her eyes wide as she glances around. Thankfully no one seems to have heard.

By the time she turns back around, Jamie’s already halfway across the cafeteria, heading towards the popular table which is mostly a mix of jocks and cheerleaders. Rey smiles at the cashier as she's handed her change, and then she’s walking in the opposite direction, her eyes straight ahead.

Rose is already at their usual table by the back doors, which isn't exactly self-exile territory, but it's pretty close. She's engrossed in _Seventeen_ as she absentmindedly eats a sandwich, not even looking up when Rey pulls out the plastic seat across from her and flops down. Rose holds the magazine up, pointing to a glossy photo of Larisa Olenik in a light pink tulle ballerina skirt and hot pink shirt, the caption underneath stating it’s from _10 Things I Hate About You_ , a movie coming out next month.

“I want to find something like this for the dance,” she says.

“Oh, has Finn asked you?”

“Not yet. Would it be totally weird to ask him?”

“Of course not,” Rey says as she takes a bite of her sloppy joe. “It’s the ‘90s.”

“So… are you going with Jamie?”

Rey takes another bite. Takes her time chewing and swallowing. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“I think you should. We can all go together! But first you need to—“

“—tell Kaydel.” Rey sighs. “I know.”

Rose nods. “Do you need a ride after school? Because I was thinking I could ask Finn then…”

“Oh yeah. I mean, no, I can find a ride. Let me know how it goes?”

Rose beams. “Yeah, I’ll call you later.”

“Just… I mean… I don’t want you to get your hopes up. Not that he’ll say no, but… maybe keep some other blokes in mind?”

Rose’s smile fades a little. “I know. It’s just… I’ve never felt like this before. It’s like everything’s in black and white and he’s in color. Have you ever felt that way?”

Rey nods.

“With Jamie?”

“Yeah…” Rey mutters as she turns back to her food. “…with Jamie.”

*

Rey pulls her coat around herself tighter as the wind whips around the red brick corner of the auditorium. She briefly entertains the thought of calling Ben from the principal’s office to come and get her, but she doesn't even know if he’s home. He’s likely out with Bazine anyway. At least he doesn’t bring her around the house anymore. In fact… Rey can’t remember the last time she’s seen her. Maybe once after the Rogue One show, sometime in early January?

God, January was a mess. Leia still hasn’t fully gotten over Ben disappearing to Aspen for two days. Every night at dinner she watches him like a hawk, like any moment he’s liable to get up from the table and run out the back door, and then five months later they’ll receive a postcard from another country signed with an assumed name. She even hung up the police report on the fridge with a D.A.R.E. magnet.

Rey tries not to think about Ben spending two days in Aspen with Bazine. Or spending Valentine’s Day with Bazine. Buying her flowers or chocolates. Or worse—a record.

The blaring of a horn cuts through any spiraling thoughts. A green Mazda pulls up to the curb. Jamie smiles from the driver’s seat.

As Rey swings open the passenger side door, Marcy Playground’s “Sex and Candy” drifts like smoke out of the dashboard. It’s nice and warm inside the car, and as Rey slides in and slams the door behind her, she thinks how nice this is. Nice, warm. Safe. No risk of him running off anywhere, unless you count college, which she’s not even thinking about right now. _He’s_ been thinking about it though, even asked her last week if he should apply to NYU too.

The drive home only takes seven minutes, but in that time, Jamie’s hand has moved up Rey’s thigh, pushing up her maroon floral midi dress, though the feeling is muffled with black tights. His fingertips brush against her center, which tickles more than excites her, but she doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t push his hand away. She doesn’t think about sex or whatever he’s thinking about, only that she hopes he can really drive safely with one hand.

As soon as they reach her bedroom and the door is closed and locked behind them, his lips are upon hers, his tongue thrusting into her mouth as his hands grip her head. He walks her back towards her bed, her knees hitting the edge. They fall back sloppily, in a drunk pantomime, the mattress springs squeaking with their combined weight and force. Jamie pulls away suddenly to shrug out of his jacket, which he tosses onto the floor. Followed by his sweatshirt. Then his tee. It’s all going so fast, as if every make-out session isn’t independent but has been a continuation, like a movie put on pause, only it’s been put on pause too many times and now he just wants to get to the end.

When he goes to unbutton his jeans, Rey clears her throat. “Leave them on.”

Jamie freezes, staring down at her on his knees as he’s in between her legs. Then he’s rolling his eyes, his hair mussed as he runs a hand through it. “Seriously Rey?”

“What?”

“Just… we’ve been together for like a month and a half now.”

“And?”

“And… well, you know. It’s normal.” He shrugs. “Expected.”

“‘Expected’?” Rey huffs. “You know you sound like you’re in after-school special, right?”

Jamie rolls his eyes. “You’re really making a bigger deal out of this than it is.”

Rey slides up the bed to sit up against the pillows, pulling her legs up and her knees closed. Jamie shifts to sit down too, facing her. “We’ve talked about this. I’m not ready yet.”

“And when do you think you’ll be ready?”

There’s a navy flower on her dress stretched over her left knee. She traces the line work with her index finger. “I don’t know.”

Silence fills the bedroom before a heavy sigh echoes against the walls, still bare even after three months. “Do you think you’ll be ready soon?”

“I don’t know.”

“Rey… I want you to be honest with me.”

“When am I not?”

“This doesn't have anything to do with that Ben guy, does it?”

Rey’s heart awakens, speeding up like a shot of adrenaline went straight into it, the blood roaring in her ears. And even though she knows logically he can’t hear it, a part of her wonders if he can see the way it moves her chest, her body. She feels as see-through as tracing paper. “No, why? Of course not. Why would you think that?”

Jamie just shakes his head, looking off to the side, out the window. “I don’t know.”

It occurs to her then this is their first fight. It’s almost as if she’s watching it from a distance, across a great divide of those who’ve had sex and those who haven’t.

Is he right? Is she making a big deal out of nothing? Is it childish to want to wait for the right time, the right person? Maybe Jamie _is_ the right person. Maybe there’s no such thing. And honestly, what does she expect? A bed covered in rose petals and poetry whispered across skin?

She tries not to think about the fantasies she hits play on late at night while staring up at the swaying shadows of bare branches on the ceiling. Replaying three kisses until it all bleeds together, sheets of rain inside a yellow tent over a hospital bed combining into one frame, like a multiple exposure on film. She replays it so much it’s begun to break down and grow hazy at the edges, and soon it’ll fade so much it’ll be like it never happened at all.

She knows she needs to look forward and not back. To replace those images with memories of Jamie. Of dates spent at the mall and bruised lips in parking lots past closing. Of the smell of citrus and vetiver in the hoodie she permanently borrowed. The way the sunsets look as they’re swallowed by rows of Easter egg-colored houses as they drive down street after street, not going anywhere.

Rey leans forward. Pulls off her flannel—first her left shoulder, then her right. She tosses it onto the floor, where it lands in a heap on top of Jamie’s clothes. He looks back at her, his eyes flickering down her chest, even though her dress is still buttoned and the neckline is high. Slowly, he leans down over her, his lips finding hers in their familiar rhythm, and their bodies soon following.

As usual, there are some items that remain on. His boxers. Her bra and panties, which never match but she doesn’t care.

He finishes in the bathroom down the hall.

*

Dinner is a typical Americana scene: meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans. The mother shooting concerned looks at her ne’er-do-well son as an awkward politeness hangs in the air in between long stretches of silence. The teenaged almost-daughter’s clothes and hair still in disarray from messing around with her boyfriend upstairs. The boyfriend in his letterman jacket sitting next to her, smiling charmingly, practically flirting with the mother, who insists on being called Leia, please, not Mrs. O.

For once, Rey isn’t hungry.

She pushes the green beans around on the china with her fork as Jamie talks about what colleges he’s applied to and all his extracurriculars. Once, when she goes to sip from her water, her eyes catch with Ben’s from directly across the table. They lock for a full seven seconds over the rim. When she puts the glass down again, there’s silence and she realizes everyone is staring at her, everyone except Ben.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Are you going to the dance, dear?” Leia repeats.

Rey shoots a glare at Jamie. He just shovels more mashed potatoes into his mouth.

“I haven't decided yet.”

“I think a dance sounds lovely.” Leia smiles. “And we can go shopping!”

“I really don’t think—“

“Oh, take time to be a teenager, Rey. I remember going to many a dance when I was your age. There was one in particular I’ll never forget… His name was Kier, and he was so handsome…” Leia takes a sip of her wine, staring off into the distance dreamily.

“I told you we’d talk about it later,” Rey whispers in Jamie’s direction.

“What’s the big deal?”

Rey takes the next minute to spell out “Kay” with her peas. Jamie just rolls his eyes. Ben leaves the table soon after, actually taking Leia’s plate with his and carrying it to the kitchen. The power of a mother’s guilt. It makes Ben stay home nights and clean dishes without being asked. It makes Rey agree to buy a dress.

*

After school the next day, a silver Audi is waiting outside the front. As Rey and Rose settle into the smooth leather of the backseat, Leia explains how she’s taken off for the day just for this. They head to a small boutique in Hanna City, the kind of place where everything is designer and even the sale items cost the same as one month’s rent of a studio apartment.

Rose says repeatedly she’s just there to try stuff on, in between a hundred gasps and “wows.” When she finds a sky blue dress with a long tulle shirt, it’s love at first sight. When Rey stands next to her in the floor-length mirror, her body draped in an emerald silk that’s more akin to a 1930s cocktail dress than a stupid dance at Chandrila High, actual tears form in Leia’s eyes. Her black American Express card is promptly handed to the cashier.

Rose says thank you the entire ride home. Rey says it too, but it’s half-hearted. It’s not that she isn’t grateful, but it’s clear this means way more to Leia than it does to her.

She wonders if she can get away with wearing her Docs with the dress.

*

BB is purring away on Rey’s stomach as she swings her bare legs on the wall above her bed, still in a towel from her shower half an hour ago. The dance is in an hour, the emerald dress hanging on the back of her closet door, which might as well carry a scarlet “A” across the silk. The phone rings, her private line.

Rey picks up the white cordless. Hits TALK. “Hello?”

“You’re going to the dance with Jamie?”

Rey sits up. “Kaydel, hey…”

“ _Are you going to the dance with Jamie?!_ ”

“I didn’t want to. He asked me in front of my foster mom and—”

“And you just _had_ to say yes.”

Rey sighs. “They kind of pressured me into it. I won’t go, if you don’t want me to.”

“Are you going out with him?”

“I told you, I won’t—”

“No, I mean…” There’s sniffles on the other end. “Are you _going out_ with him?”

Even BB is looking at her. Rey closes her eyes. “Yes,” she finally says, her voice small.

The line clicks dead. Rey listens to the hum for a few seconds before dialing another number.

“I can’t go,” she says even before Jamie finishes saying “Hey babe.”

“What?”

“I can’t go. Kaydel called me. _She knows._ ”

“So? Who cares? She was going to find out eventually anyway.”

“ _I_ care.”

“Then… I don’t know, you should have told her sooner.”

“You don’t think I know that?”

“I mean, she would have seen us at the dance. She’s going with Kyle.”

Rey sighs, her head in her hands, the cordless cradled against her ear. “God, she hates me.”

“She’ll get over it. Anyway, I’ve got something that will cheer you up. Ethan booked a room for him and Vanessa at this hotel in Hanna City, and it gave me the idea to book one, too.”

“…What? Are you serious?”

“Well yeah, I mean, it’s a place to hang out after. Beats drinking in the parking lot in the cold.”

“No, I’m not going. I can't." There's silence on the other end, and Rey feels the need to fill it, to say something more, even if it’s a lie. "I’m sorry.”

For the second time that night, she gets hung up on.

*

Smashing Pumpkins’s “Today” spins on the record player in the tent as Rey strokes BB's fur. She’s lying on her side on the cot, staring ahead blankly at one of the shorted-out bulbs of the string lights when the nylon flap is pulled back.

“Hey,” the deep voice she’d know anywhere fills the space, reverberating through her.

“Hey.”

Ben ducks in, then sits down over by the record player, picking up the _Siamese Dream_ album cover and scrutinizing it as if he’s never seen it before. As if he wasn’t the one who bought it for her.

“So... Leia told me you’re not going to the dance.” When a few seconds pass and there’s nothing but the music, Ben turns his head to look at her.

“No,” she says.

Ben just nods, then turns back to the record. They listen to the song together until it ends. Just as the next song starts, he pulls the needle off the vinyl, placing the tone arm back into its rest. “Want to go for a drive?”

*

The cherry red Camaro glides down the darkened streets of Chandrila. When they pass a speed sign reading 55, Rey glances over at the speedometer to find the dial precisely at 55. She knows he’s used to going faster, so the fact he’s going slow for her, keeping her safety in mind… well, it’s not a mixtape confession of love, but it must mean something.

Synthesizers of The Cure’s “In Between Days” fills the space in between them, which feels both vast and small at the same time. She leans against the headrest, closing her eyes, letting herself drift in it.

God, she’s missed this.

She’s missed him.

This is the closest she’ll ever feel to happiness, she’s sure of it. It isn't enough. It’ll never be enough. But it’s something. Like a morsel of bread after spending weeks starving. Like a fucking fish stick heated up in the microwave, even if she had earned a bruise for it after.

“Did you actually want to go?” Ben’s voice brings her back to him, not that she was ever far.

“No,” she admits truthfully. “It would have been nice to hang out with Finn and Rose, but it’s not like we don’t hang out and dance in Rose’s room all the time anyway.”

Wait… did Ben just smile? Was that an actual smile she glimpsed? They seem to be as rare as a comet these days. “I hated those things when I was in high school too.”

“Of course you did.” Rey bites down a smile as she looks out the window, at the blur of the sun setting through the bare trees. “They never play any good music.”

“No,” he agrees. “I once requested The Smith’s ‘Asleep.’ Apparently it’s not something you can really dance to?”

Rey bursts out laughing. She can’t help it.

“I think…” she says, after a few minutes pass in comfortable silence. “…it helps when it’s someone you actually want to go with.”

Ben doesn’t respond. But before Rey can obsess over whether he read into her meaning, the car stops.

They’re in an empty parking lot, a white house with darkened windows in front of them, a lighthouse looming next to it. The beam is shooting out into the horizon, circling. Waves crash against jagged rocks below in the silence between songs.

Rey watches Ben as he presses the dial, looking for something in particular. When he raises the volume dial, “Lovesong” drifts out.

He looks over at her.

A tuft of black waves has fallen in front of his right eye, the turquoise light of dusk fading by the second as the headlights and lighthouse glow a warm yellow, casting his face in the most beautiful shadows she’s ever seen. She’ll never be able to capture it.

He opens the driver’s side door. Then he’s passing in front of the headlights, moving over to the passenger side and opening her door, the wind whipping even more from the sea, breathing salty.

He holds out his left hand.

She takes it.

Mid-February in Maine is freezing cold, but she doesn’t feel it. The only thing she can feel is the heat from his hand. How much she wants to feel that heat everywhere.

Suddenly they’re stopped in front of the headlights, Rey’s heart thumping madly against her chest as Ben pulls her against him. She feels out of breath like she's been running, and maybe she has, running to this place and this moment all the way from the hospital back in late October.

A few seconds pass. An eternity. Time bends in his orbit, their breaths puffing clouds, their eyes drifting down, then up, then down again. Seeking answers to questions that haven't been asked yet.

His left hand spans across her lower back. Even through the layers, through her oversized cream sweater and tan wool coat, she can feel him. He presses gently, their hips close together. Her right hand, which is still enclasped in his left, is brought up, and then they’re swaying slowly. Right, left. Right, left. Right, left. Around.

She’s spinning.

And then he's pulling her back into him, closer than before. Without even thinking about it, without second-guessing or stopping herself as she usually does, she moves her arms around his broad shoulders, playing with the wisps of waves at the nape of his neck. His hair’s getting long. Time is going by, and she doesn’t want it to. She doesn’t want things to change. She doesn’t want to go to college, not if it means leaving home. And Ben is home. She just wants to stay here, in this moment, forever.

But the song ends.

Ben’s smiling down at her, but it’s not a happy smile. It’s not sad though, either. It’s something in between.

*

They spend the next two and a half hours in the car, flipping through CDs like a DJ to match the mood, talking about everything and nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so, Jamie's not entirely all bad? Like he writes her loves notes and wants to go to the same college as her. And it's not like he's embarrassed by her not being cool either. But let's face it... he's no Ben.
> 
> Hope you guys liked the fluffy fluff at the end. You deserve it for patiently suffering through _le angst_ in previous chaps. These two kids are finally getting somewhere. ;)
> 
>  **Next chapter:** "Interstate Love Song” by Stone Temple Pilots
> 
> Rey gets some expected news. Ben makes an even more unexpected suggestion.


	15. Interstate Love Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favorite chapter yet. I tried something new with it, too. Usually each one is either strictly Rey's POV or Ben's, but I added a scene from his. 
> 
> I very nearly made the chapter song “Left Behind” by Candlebox. It was a hard decision. I still use the song in the chap, so I recommend listening to it. 
> 
> Special thanks to Aisling for beta'ing.

_Leaving on a southern train_  
_Only yesterday you lied_  
_Promises of what I seemed to be_  
_Only watched the time go by_  
_All of these things you said to me..._  

_“Interstate Love Song” by Stone Temple Pilots_

* * *

 

There's an old saying for March: in like a lion and out like a lamb.

March 1999 begins with a snowstorm. It closes down Chandrila High for two days, which means movie marathons in the living room with Ben on the couch (The Godfather Parts I and II—he refuses to even _mention_ III) while sitting close enough to feel each other’s body heat as they share the same white throw blanket. It means listening to records in the tent in the attic, smoking weed. It means laughing about stupid shit. It means looks and touches that last three seconds longer than what’s between friends. It reminds Rey of when they were in the hospital together, always together.

By the time it’s mid-March, a warm front has moved up the coast, bringing with it balmy weather and the shedding of layers. She’s always been happiest when the sun is out. It reminds her of the promise of spring—of sprouted blossoms the color of macarons, of perfumed air. Of lightness and possibilities.

The windows of Finn’s Honda are rolled down the entire ride home from school. Rey can’t stop smiling as she lounges in the backseat, the sun kissing her skin as she hangs her arm out the window, the wind whooshing through her fingers.

When she opens the front door to the Solo House, there’s the smell of coffee and the sound of women’s voices murmuring. As soon the door shuts behind her, the voices stop.

Rey finds Leia and Amilyn in the kitchen, seated at the small, round wooden table, their hands wrapped around half-empty mugs. Leia rises from the table first, a look etched in the worn lines of her face, one Rey knows all too well.

“Am I being kicked out?” she asks, hating how small her voice sounds in that moment. How weak. How pathetic. Still a garbage girl, a scavenger, no matter how much Leia had dressed her up. Maybe Plutt was right, after all—she’s _nothing_.

Leia's face falls even more. She rushes over to her, hugging her tight. “Oh no, dear! Not at all! Never.” When she pulls back, her thumbs wipe the tears that must have escaped Rey’s eyes. What traitorous things. She thought she was above them by now.

“Then what’s going on?”

Leia glances back at Amilyn. The kind social worker takes this as her cue, reaching into her worn leather messenger bag and rummaging around the messy contents before pulling out a letter. “This arrived at Social Services a few days ago.” She glances at Leia, then back at Rey again. “We had a discussion about it, and under the circumstances, we felt it was acceptable to give to you, even though biological parents aren’t typically allowed to—”

“Wait, what?” Rey interrupts. “‘Parents’?”

Amilyn looks at Leia. There’s a conversation going on between them, one that Rey’s not privy to, and it bothers her. She’s not a child. She’s not some fragile thing.

“Why don’t you sit down?” Amilyn motions to the chair next to her.

“I don’t want to sit down,” Rey snaps, her tone harsh even to her own ears, but she’s too overwhelmed right now to control it, let alone apologize. She holds out her hand expectantly.

Amilyn only hesitates for a few seconds before handing her the slightly-wrinkled envelope. Rey’s fingertips trace over the unfamiliar handwriting.

_Reyanne Daisy Johnson._

She never even knew she had a middle name. She’s never seen her birth certificate.

The urge to tear into it is unbearably strong, but she can’t do it here. Not in front of Amilyn and Leia. She needs to be alone, more than she’s ever needed to be alone before. She turns around and runs out the kitchen, up the steps, only hesitating for half a second at Ben’s door before passing it, past her own door, and up the narrow stairway to the attic.

She never even noticed the cassette tape lying on the table, behind Amilyn’s coffee mug.

*

The repeated strains of Candlebox’s “Far Behind” reach Ben.

When he lifts the flap, the first thing he sees is Rey curled up on the cot, her back to the opening of the tent, staring at the yellow nylon wall. Ben sits down on the floor next to the cot, his knees pulled up as the aluminum frame digs into his lower back.

“Everything okay?”

One bridge and chorus pass before he hears a “no” so quiet, he can’t entirely be certain he didn’t imagine it. Mid-second verse, she finally turns her head, fat teardrops on her eyelashes and a dewy rosiness to her skin. She looks beautiful when she cries. Not that he ever wants to see her cry.

“What’s wrong?” He instantly switches into protective mode, not surprised at the rise of red hot rage shooting through his veins, which makes his fists clench and his vision sharp.

Rey just sniffles, wiping at her her eyes and nose with the back of her hand. She then reaches under the pillow, thrusting a crinkled letter on ruled notebook paper at him before turning back to the wall.

He looks down at it. It begins with “My baby girl Reyanne.” Already Ben feels sick, a stone sinking down to his stomach. He’s got a bad feeling about this.

 _I’ve thought about you so much over the years,_ his eyes skim. _…understand if you don’t want to… so many regrets, most of all… please… I love you… please._

“What is this?”

“It’s from my parents.” She shrugs one shoulder, her voice strangely hollow and far away.

“ _What?_  Why are they contacting you now? No, fuck that, I don’t want to know. _Fuck ‘em._ ” He leans over her, his thumbs smoothing over the tear streaks on her cheeks just like Leia used to do when he was a child. “Don’t waste another fucking tear on them. You hear me, Rey?”

She just shakes her head. “You don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand? They left you. _They fucking left you._ ”

“You think I don’t know that?” Rey sits up suddenly. “You think you know my life better than me?”

“No, of course not. That’s not what I’m—”

“I know they fucking left me. I _remember_ it. I remember being left in the parking lot of a Tesco’s. I remember going inside, and wandering around, and walking up and down the aisles for _hours_ — _hours,_ Ben—before finally someone noticed, and not knowing my phone number and then the police coming and—” Her voice cracks, her face crumbles. “And—”

Ben’s arms are around her instinctively. He rubs circles into her back as she buries her face into his neck. “It’s okay. Shh, shhh. It’s okay kid. It’s okay.”

She mumbles something into his skin, but he doesn’t catch it.

“What can I do?”

“Nothing.” She sighs deeply. “I have to go.”

Ben pulls back to look at her. “Where do you want to go? I’ll go with you. Anywhere you want to go.”

“No…” She’s shaking her head, looking down. “I mean, I have to go see them.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re my parents,” she says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And I can finally meet my brother.”

The song ends. Rey extracts herself from him, leaning over the record player. His body misses hers instantly, a coldness setting back over him like an old friend. Funny how he never noticed before how much he needed her until after they started spending time together again. It’s like when he shuts himself up in his room for too long, that even something as simple as feeling the wind upon his skin makes him realize how much he’s missed it. How much he’s missed out on. Like he’d been dead for years.

There’s a warm, crackling silence as the needle spins on the vinyl. Then the song plays all over again.

“I’ll go with you,” he repeats with a finality that brokers no argument.

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not. But even if you were… you know I’d do anything for you. _Anything_.”

Once it’s out there, it echoes. Even the music can’t drown it out.

Rey just stares at him. With every passing second, he feels the awkward weight of maybe having said too much. Or having said it the wrong way—too forcibly, too passionately.

But at least she’s not crying anymore.

Finally, she says, “And you know I’d do anything for you.”

God, _fuck_ , he wants to kiss her.

But first, he wants to kiss away every tear streak. He wants to taste them on his lips, mingling with her skin until it’s all salt. He wants to… _he wants to…_

But now’s not the time. There might never be a time, he knows that. So he tells himself this is enough.

He can be a friend. He can be a brother.

He can be whatever she needs.

*

A plan is set in motion that night.

Leia can’t go with her due to some meeting or other she can’t miss. Something about a very important bill in the legislature. As Rey assures her she understands, she looks over at Ben across the dinner table. For the first time, she thinks she might understand how it must have been for him growing up.

“Why don’t you wait?” Leia asks. “Maybe this summer we can all go.”

Rey shakes her head vehemently. “I can’t wait that long. I’ve already waited twelve years.”

Leia mulls it over, clearly suspicious about the whole thing, but eventually she agrees.

She offers to pay for airfare. Chandrila, Maine to JFK in Queens is only an hour and a half flight, she keeps insisting. To drive is _ridiculous_. Eight hours and fifteen minutes, and that’s not even counting traffic.

But Rey insists she wants to take the long way. She needs the time to think. To gather her courage. To go over what she wants to say. She writes it all down in her sketchbook, practices in the mirror as she tries on a sixth or seventh outfit.

She pulls her hair back into three buns.

*

The morning light is blinding. Rey leaves the house with sunglasses on, feeling hungover from lack of sleep. It’s another balmy day as a warm front continues to moves up the coast, but the early hour is cool. She’s wearing denim shorts and a striped tee—a facsimile of the outfit she was wearing the last time she saw _them_. Her parents. Gary and Karen Johnson.

Birds chirp as Rey pulls the handle of the passenger side door of the red Camaro, glimpsing her distorted reflection in the glass. As Rey slides in, she tosses her duffel bag into the backseat, then settles back, sipping from her travel mug of coffee. It’s her third cup already, and the caffeine has done nothing for the exhaustion; it only makes her more jittery. Everything feels surreal. She feels like she’s in a Jean-Luc Godard film.

From the driver’s seat, Ben flashes her a lopsided smile. He’s wearing Ray-Ban Wayfarers, his hair mussed and a red hoodie slouched on his frame, the sleeves pushed up. Rey has to remind herself not to stare at his forearms, or the ropes of his veins, or the bulge in his black jeans, or…

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” Rey takes a sip of her coffee, her mouth suddenly dry.

Ben turns on the ignition.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this? Driving I mean?” she asks, knowing how the accident last autumn still affects him.

“Fine,” he assures her. He tosses her a black leather case. When she unzips it, she finds CD after CD—all blank with black Sharpie scrawled on it. Titles like _More Sad like The Smiths :(_ and _Real Punk, Not the Hot Topic Shit_. “I didn’t have time to make cover art.”

“You dork.”

“If I’m a dork, then so are you,” he replies smoothly as he turns the steering wheel, the gravel crunching under the tires.

“Then we’re perfect together.” It flies out of Rey’s mouth before she can even think about it. Oh god, are they flirting? It takes her a few seconds to sneak a glance at Ben. He’s staring straight ahead as the car moves down the driveway, not that she can read him anyway with sunglasses covering half his face.

She's thankful she’s wearing them, too.

The mansions grow smaller and closer together until they’re just regular houses. Sidings painted pristine white and cornflower blue start to peel, revealing the working-class neighborhoods of Chandrila.

Soon they’re on the I-95.

Rey busies herself by flipping through the case, which includes regular CDs as well, including Stone Temple Pilot’s _Purple_. She pops it in. Turns up the volume dial all the way up. “Interstate Love Song” plays, invigorating her more than the coffee with five sugars ever could.

When she looks over at Ben again, his black waves are blowing in the whooshing wind from the rolled-down window, his left forearm on the door, his fingers tapping to the beat against it.

And they glide, glide, glide.

*

Three and a half hours into their road trip, they stop at a diner in New Hampshire. It’s a relic from the 1940s, the chrome dented and dull but still charming in its nostalgia. Green and pink neon lights glow against it in Art Deco arches, even in the middle of the day.

Ben and Rey leave their sunglasses on inside, slouching against the turquoise vinyl seats, exhausted already from the miles of pavement and sleep deprivation and caffeine crash. They sit across from one another in comfortable silence, Rey swirling her strawberry milkshake around with her straw as Ben drinks from a mug of coffee and a frosted plastic cup of sugary coke at the same time.

Both of them order cheeseburgers. Ben wrinkles his nose at Rey dipping her fries into mayo. “They don’t have HP.” She shrugs, as if that’s an acceptable explanation for such an atrocity.

When she begins to casually steal his fries after eating all of hers, he pretends not to notice.

After lunch, Ben lingers outside to smoke a cigarette. Rey’s just happy to be next him, despite the acrid smoke. It’s almost as if they’re together. She wonders if people passing by think they’re a couple.

Across the street, something catches Rey’s eye. Like a kid, she doesn’t even think about it before crossing the street, her eye on something shiny.

Ben follows behind her, as he always does.

It’s an arcade. An empty arcade, as it’s in the middle of the day in the middle of the week in a small town that’s probably not even on the map. It’s dark inside, the only illumination coming from the blinking neon lights of the retro game cabinets. A twenty-something guy with a mustache and the name _Troy_ embroidered on his breast pocket exchanges their cash for tokens, then goes back to ignoring them.

For the next two hours, Ben and Rey play Street Fighter, Space Invaders, Pac-Man. They shoot hoops and fire plastic guns at a screen. They stuff ticket after ticket into the pockets of Ben’s hoodie until it’s enough to exchange for an oversized plush bear.

He sits in the backseat, the seatbelt buckled over him.

*

Another hour later, and they’re sat in red velvet seats in the middle of an empty movie theater.

“This is the last distraction,” Ben vows as the lights dim.

Rey nods enthusiastically as she shovels popcorn into her mouth.

“I can’t believe you’re still hungry.” He shakes his head in disbelief, even after knowing her for all this time.

Rey throws a kernel at him. It bounces off his nose. Something like shock crosses his face.

Panic rises, and Rey worries that maybe she just crossed a line. That she’s just confirmed how juvenile she is and _look, see, you’re just a child to him_ , but then he smirks and it’s boyish and beautiful.

For the next hour and 37 minutes, they watch _Cruel Intentions_. Rey pretends not to be affected by a film where step-siblings are hot for each other, or the sheer amount of sexual scenes and references in it. She’s calm, she’s cool. She’s not hyper-aware of how close Ben is sitting to her, or his forearm on the armrest, or how close his thigh is as he spreads out his long legs, leaning back. She’s not squirming as she crosses her legs for any other reason than her shorts riding up. And if she’s thirsty, it’s only because of the popcorn.

When she shivers, he shrugs off his red hoodie and gives it to her. She wraps herself in it, curling her fists in the sleeves.

It’s hers now. There’s no way he’s ever getting it back.

*

Walking out of a darkened movie theater is disconcerting. It always feels as if more time has passed inside than actually has. As Ben and Rey push open the side doors, the light is blinding, the late afternoon sun a golden blaze that hangs low over the tops of cars in the parking lot.

They still have another five hours of driving ahead of them before reaching Long Island, and just the thought of it is exhausting. But they’ve been in New Hampshire too long.

By the time they pass the “Welcome to Massachusetts” sign, it’s dark.

Rey must have nodded off. It was like being dead—a dreamless void of darkness like a black hole. She comes back alive to Ben’s hand on her arm, shaking her gently. When she opens her eyes, the first thing she’s aware of is Ben. And then that the car is off and they’re in a parking lot with a neon sign blaring MOTEL, the O and L short-circuited. In a marquee underneath: CABLE TV — AIR CONDITIONING — WEEKLY RATES — VACANCY.

“Why are we stopping?” she asks, her voice thick with sleep, like syrup.

“I’m too tired,” he explains, shrugging. “I’m sorry. I promise, we’ll make it there first thing tomorrow.”

Rey nods. There’s a tiny twist of disappointment in her gut, but it’s quickly replaced by a twist of something else. She’s at a motel. With Ben. Despite the seediness of the place, it doesn’t feel wrong. It could never feel wrong.

She follows him into the office. When Ben asks for two rooms, she thinks she can actually feel her heart drop, as if it’s fallen straight out of her body and plopped onto the dirty floor underneath her Chucks.

They open their doors at the same time, which are next to each other. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches Ben disappear into his room. Only then does she go into hers.

The first thing she does is run the shower. It hisses out of the old nozzle, pattering down on porcelain and gurgling down the drain. She peels off her clothes, her shirt smelling of sweat around the underarms, feeling a griminess clinging to her skin that comes from being on the road.

The water isn’t hot, but it feels so good pattering upon her skin, seeping into her muscles. She watches the faint remnants of the red hair dye Kaydel had put in her hair months ago swirl down the drain like blood. It’s nearly completely faded now, along with their friendship.

Ever since Kaydel found out about Jamie, she hasn’t spoken to Rey. Not one word. Not even any withering looks. She passes her by in the hall without looking at her, as if she’s invisible. As if she’s nothing. Part of Rey wishes she would scream out her. Just do something. Anything.

It wasn’t even worth it. Jamie ended things a week ago, which was actually their second break-up. The first time was shortly after the dance. But then two days later, he had showed up at her house with a red rose, having clearly watched one too many cheesy romantic movies. She doesn’t know why she fell back into it, other than it was just something to do, someone to hang out with. Making out on her bed. Making out in his car. Drinking shitty beer with his friends in parking lots with his letterman jacket slung over her shoulders like a collar.

But it wasn’t enough. Not for her. Not for him. He kept pushing, wanting more. Wanting a future where they go to the same college, to the same parties with the same kind of people they hang out with now. Wanting things she can’t give him, like her body or her thoughts or her heart.

She still hasn’t told Ben it ended.

She wants him to be jealous. To realize she’s desirable, or desired by other people, anyway. To wonder late at night if she’s slept with Jamie yet. To obsess over it the way she can’t stop picturing him in bed with Bazine or all the other girls he’s been inside of— nameless, faceless girls with supermodel bodies. She thinks about it like a masochist.

Besides, it’s not like he ever talks to her about Bazine. And Rey doesn’t ask. There are some things she doesn’t want to know.

Still… she can’t help but wonder what’s going on with them. When does he find the time to see her? He’s always home, either hanging out with Rey or holed up in his room, reading or writing. The only time he ever leaves the house is to go running. Do they secretly meet up in the middle of the night? Does he sneak her in? Do they have phone sex?

Rey’s thoughts begin to go to a dark place as she lies on top of the ugly floral bedspread, still in the motel’s threadbare towel. But before she can spiral too much, she hears soft knocking at the door.

She gets up and opens it without even bothering to put any clothes on. She doesn’t know why.

No, that’s a lie.

Ben’s standing there, the mist in the air from a light rain beading on the wisps of his black waves, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, causing them to slouch low over his hips. His eyes go wide and his lips fall open. Then he’s pressing them together, looking down, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. But before he found a crack in the cement absolutely _fascinating_ , there was a second there where his eyes swooped down and lingered.

Rey feels herself flush, not from embarrassment but pleasure. She’s affected him. She wonders if she affects him even 1/70th of how he affects her.

“I just wanted to check if you were okay,” he says, still looking down.

“I’m okay.”

Neither move. Neither say anything.

Rey hesitates, but then something inside her swells, making her bold. Later, she can blame it on the weather.

She pushes the door wide open. “Did you want to come in?”

Ben’s doing a great impression of a deer in headlights. “Oh, I don’t think—”

But she’s already walking away, back to the bed, leaving the door open and praying he follows. She hears it click closed from behind her.

She sits on the mattress, the springs bouncing underneath her, reminding her of sex. God, everything reminds her of sex these days. She knows it’s because she’s been spending so much time with Ben. He radiates an animalistic sexuality, magnetic and smoldering.

Rey crosses her legs, aware of how the towel rides up but pretending not to be. As casually as she can, she picks up the menu next to the phone.

The entire time, she’s hyperaware aware of Ben. Of him hesitating in the doorway. His slow, meandering movements into the room. His hands still shoved in his pockets. The distance he maintains of six feet or so. The staring at the generic artwork on the wall, at the screen of a TV that’s off.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

“Always,” she answers.

“I don’t think room service is open. But I think I saw some vending machines…”

Rey nods. “Yeah, sure. Sounds good.”

Ben practically runs out of the room. When he returns a few minutes later, Rey still isn’t dressed, much to his clear embarrassment and maybe even dismay.

“Did you want to, uh…” He clears his throat. “Maybe put something on? A sweatshirt or something?”

Rey’s heart, which had gotten dirty and damaged on the floor when it had fallen earlier, drops again. She picks it up and goes over to her duffel bag, pulling out cotton shorts and a tee. When she slips into the bathroom, she spends a minute splashing her face with cold water and staring into the mirror, wondering what’s wrong with her. Why doesn’t he want her?

She dresses, then drowns herself in his hoodie.

Ben’s sitting on the bed when she comes back out. In front of him are two piles of chips and candy and cans of soda. “Pick one.”

She picks the pile with Sun Chips, Twizzlers, and Cherry Coke. He picks Peanut M&M’s, Cool Ranch Doritos, and Sprite. Rey’s pretty sure Leia would have a heart attack if she knew this is what they were eating for dinner.

The night grows deeper and the hours slow.

They lie together against the headboard on top of the bedspread, as if crawling under it is a line that can’t be crossed. They watch episodes of _The Twilight Zone_ , but Rey watches Ben more than she watches the screen, staring at the monochrome light flickering upon his face in the darkened room.

When Rey rests her head upon his shoulder, he doesn’t stop her.

*

Morning comes.

A hazy sepia glow filters into the room through the thick curtains, which are drawn to keep out not only the light and noise but the world.

Rey’s limbs feel leaden with a warm coziness. It feels like sinking and floating at the same time. It feels like being stoned. She realizes it’s due to Ben, though she thinks she knew that even before she woke up. His arms are wrapped tightly around her, his body behind hers, their legs tangled and his slow, deep breaths blowing hot then cool on her neck. She never wants to get up. She never wants this feeling to go away.

Something hard is poking her in between her thighs, which feel warm and sticky with a sheen of sweat. She mentally counts twenty-eight seconds, biting her bottom lip hard, wondering what she should do. Does she wake him up? Pretend it never happened?

She knows she should. But Rey is young and impulsive and red-blooded, and she can’t really be expected to think clearly when Benjamin Solo is this close, can she?

She leans into it, pressing herself closer. She wants this. She needs this. She needs him.

Ben’s hands grip her tighter, grinding into her.

Her heart quickens. Does he know? Is he awake?

She bites down a moan.

Suddenly there’s a loss. Ben sits up, pulling away from her, his hair more disheveled than she’s ever seen it.

“Sorry,” he mumbles as he jumps out of bed, his movements clumsy with the remnants of sleep and confusion. But before she can say anything—before she can practice her acting by pretending she has no idea what he’s talking about—he’s out the door.

*

They hardly speak the rest of the way to New York. Every time she tries to start a conversation, Ben just grunts a response and turns the volume dial up. He repeatedly plays the punk mix CD, clearly liking it loud and fast and hard.

By the time the silvery skyscrapers jut out in the distance, Rey’s convinced she’s dying. Her heart’s racing and she’s sweaty all over, and not just from the two vanilla cappuccinos she’d downed earlier from a machine at the gas station.

This is it. Soon she’ll see her parents and her brother and their house. Maybe she could even live with them, if she gets accepted into NYU. She can commute to Manhattan and ride the subway like a native New Yorker, like she’s been here all along. She’ll finally belong.

She tries not to think about how Ben fits into it. She’ll think about that later.

She stuffs it down with the rest of the things they don’t talk about.

Long looks. Lingering touches. Girlfriends. Boyfriends. How he once said he’d fuck her so hard, _she’d be sore for days_.

His father. Her parents. What he writes about. What it is they are.

The past. The future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *pulls back shower curtain like that one Adam GIF from Girls*
> 
> Oh hello UST.
> 
> We're getting close guys. _Really_ close.
> 
>  **Next chapter:** "The Kids Aren't Alright" by The Offspring
> 
> Confessions. Distractions. Things come to a head in more ways than one.


	16. The Kids Aren’t Alright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally used The Offspring's "The Kids Aren't Alright" for the last chapter, as Part I. But I've since decided to break up what was going to be two parts into three, and didn't want to use the same song for three chapters. Thus, last chapter became STP’s "Interstate Love Song," which works better anyway.

_Chances thrown, nothing’s free_  
_Longing for what used to be_  
_Still it’s hard, hard to see_  
_Fragile lives, shattered dreams_

_The cruelest dream, reality_

_“The Kids Aren’t Alright” by The Offspring_

* * *

 

The mug of tea in Rey’s hands has gone cold.

It has way too much milk and sugar in it, as if Gary and Karen Johnson have a snapshot of Rey as the five-year-old they left in front of a Tesco’s, complete with a five-year-old’s taste buds. Rey doesn’t even put milk in her tea anymore. In fact, she prefers it iced now, which she supposes is the American in her.

The English girl, however, still takes polite sips, fighting down a grimace every time it swirls saccharinely-sweet down her tongue, leaving a sour aftertaste.

None of this feels real.

Gary and Karen Johnson don’t seem like real people. They’re wax figures straight out of Madame Tussauds’, sitting rim-rod straight on the couch across from where Rey is sitting in the recliner. They look at each other more than they look at Rey, though every so often they sneak glances at Ben. She can feel him behind her, slightly to her left, as he leans against the kitchen island with his arms crossed. What he must look like to them, with his leather jacket pulled taut over his muscles like a second skin, the jagged scar across his face only enhancing the scowl.

“Simon will be home any minute,” Karen says. “I know how excited he’ll be to see you.”

Rey’s heart inflates like a balloon. “I can’t wait to meet him. I’ve always wanted a sibling.”

Gary and Karen just look at one other before taking another sip of their tea.

Rey does the same.

“How long do you think you’ll be staying?” asks Gary, shifting on the couch.

“Oh!” Rye glances back in Ben’s direction, though she can’t really see him, just a looming black blur. “I don’t know. I think just today? I’ve already missed two days of school and have a lot of homework to catch up on.”

“Just today,” Ben confirms gruffly.

“Well...” Karen smiles, patting her husband’s thigh. “We’re just so glad you’re here. I know how hard it must have been for you—”

“Oh do you?” Ben’s voice cuts through airily.

Karen’s smile slips, but then she’s putting it back on and rearranging it, pulling it tight. “Indeed.”

“Indeed,” Gary agrees with gusto, nodding his head, as if they’re talking about the stock market or rising petrol prices.

Everyone takes another sip from their mugs.

“Perhaps you’d like to see photos?” Karen suddenly stands from the couch, but without waiting for an answer, she’s already pulling a photo album from a bookshelf in the corner. She flips a few pages before handing it to Rey.

Rey looks down.

There’s a young boy, about six or seven years of age, smiling widely with two front teeth missing, a blue helmet lopsided over his dark brown hair as he grips the handlebars of a red bike with a huge bow on it.

The same boy, his round wire-framed glasses falling off his nose as he leans down over a sheet of birthday cake, his mouth in an O as he tries to blow out the rest of the glowing candles.

Rey flips the page.

The boy in a bathing suit in front of a pool, a blur of other children around him, holding a slice of pizza on a paper plate. A black lab is sitting next to him, starring intently up at the pizza.

“That’s Shadow,” Karen says. “He died a few years back.”

Rey nods. They couldn’t keep _her_ , but they kept a dog. She flips through a few more pages, the photos a blur of colors and happiness.

The boy, older now, smiling next to a cardboard display with a blue ribbon pinned to his sweater, Gary and Karen Johnson flanking him on both sides. The photo she saw printed in black and white in the newspaper. The article that caused her to—

“He won first place for ‘Wind Turbine Efficiency and Power Generation’.”

“Windmills,” Gary explains from over on the couch.

“Wow,” Rey says. “You must be so proud.”

“Oh, we are,” Karen says, beaming down at the photo. “He’s our little scientist. Going to change the world someday.”

This time, when Gary and Karen Johnson look at one another, they smile.

Rey takes the opportunity to study them again. Gary, slightly balding but trying to hide it with a combover, his thick plastic glasses and corduroy jacket with elbow patches screaming professor. And Karen, with her gray cashmere sweater and khaki trousers, her hair the same chestnut shade as Rey’s, pulled into a chignon. Ever since she crossed the threshold twenty minutes ago, she’s been studying their features piece by piece, trying to find any similarities, any connection between them and her. Eyes, lips, ears, nose—disembodied like a surrealist painting.

But they look like strangers. Like nondescript models in a Macy’s catalogue.

She thought she’d find answers here. But there’s nothing in between the lines, in between the pauses that turn into long, awkward silences. No explanations. No apologies.

She thinks maybe she might have come at a bad time. But Gary isn’t teaching class today, and Karen is a homemaker. It occurs to her then that maybe they don’t want her here.

“Why send me the letter?” she blurts out before she can stop herself. “Why, after all this time?”

Karen closes the photo album, then hugs it close to her chest as if Rey might snatch it from her and burn it. She sits back down on the couch, back to the safety of her husband, her family.

Gary clears his throat. “We wanted to wait until Simon got home from school—” He glances at his wife. “—but I suppose now’s a good time as any…”

Karen nods, looking down. Gary puts an arm around her, gripping her bicep, the cashmere pulled slightly. Rey wonders if she’s the type to worry about wrinkles.

“Simon’s sick. Acute Myeloid Leukemia.”

Behind her, Rey can hear Ben shuffle forward.

“Oh my god,” Rey says. “Is he going to be okay?”

“We hope so,” Gary says. “With your help.”

A harsh sound pierces the air. Something like a laugh, mangled in jaded bitterness.

“Of course,” Ben says, coming into Rey’s peripheral. “You want fucking money.”

“No.” Karen’s shaking her head. “We have more than enough. And we have good insurance through—”

“More than enough for a kid and a dog and a white picket fence in fucking 1950s suburbia, but not enough to keep Rey? You know, your fucking _daughter_?”

Gary and Karen Johnson look at one another again.

“We regret the way that happened,” Gary says, looking down as if he’s trying to remember his lines. “We were in a bad place at the time, and we couldn’t afford to take care of anyone. We believed she’d be better off.”

“In a fucking parking lot?!” Ben’s voice booms. Rey looks up at him. His eyes are wide and unblinking, locked onto Gary like a panther upon prey. He looks feral.

“Y-yes.”

Karen grips her photo album tighter. “There were people around. Who could help. And there was food—”

“Oh right,” Ben laughs harshly again. “Because _a five-year-old_ can buy food. Did you even give her any money?”

Silence.

Rey wonders if they look ashamed. She’s not looking at them. She _can’t_ look at them. As she stares down into the murky depths of her tea, she wishes she could drown in it.

“Did it ever even cross your mind—”

The front door swings open. A lanky boy about age thirteen, with a face covered in acne and not helped by thick glasses, walks in. He stops short at the scene before him, the tension in the air palpable.

“Simon!” Karen rises, the lines in her face smoothing out and her body language reading relief. She grabs his backpack from off his shoulders, then brushes imaginary lint off his thick cable-knit sweater. “I’d like you to meet someone. This is your sister, Reyanne.”

“ _Rey_ ,” Ben seethes.

Simon looks at his parents, then at Rey, then back at his parents again. “But… you told me she was dead…?”

“That’s it.” Ben grabs Rey’s arm, pulling her up roughly. The mug crashes to the floor, spilling tea everywhere. “Fuck you. We’re out of here.”

“Wait,” Gary says, holding his palms up, a note of panic in his voice. “Just… let’s all just calm down. Please.”

Ben’s chest is rising and falling rapidly. His grip hurts, but she doesn’t tell him to stop. It’s the only thing that feels real. It’s the only thing she can feel.

“For Simon.”

“We’ll cut straight to the point,” Karen says, her arm protectively around her son. “Simon needs a bone marrow transplant, and neither of us are a match. And siblings have a 25% chance of being a match.”

“I knew it. I fucking knew it.” Ben steps closer to them, while at the same time pushing Rey behind him. Gary and Karen look like frozen deer in headlights. “That letter was just manipulation to get Rey here. All for your _precious_ son.”

“Please,” Karen says, her eyes welling up. “I know what you must think of us. But please…” She looks at Rey. “Don’t let it affect Simon.”

Rey thinks she might be sick. The tea is rising in her throat and the room is blurring. No, wait, that’s Ben’s dragging her through the living room and out the door.

The late afternoon light is blinding. Birds are chirping somewhere above them, like the world didn't just end.

Rey finds herself in the passenger seat of Ben’s Camaro without remembering how she got there. She looks down and finds herself bucked in. Did she do that or did he?

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Ben murmurs to her as he gently grasps her face. “I’m so sorry.”

His face is millimeters away from hers. All she can see is _Ben._ His dark, wild eyes, his lips pressed together, the constellations of freckles she knows by heart. How often she’s wondered if they trail down the rest of his body. How she longs to study new constellations on the uncharted expanse of his skin.

His thumbs swipe her cheeks. Oh. She must be crying.

“What do you want to do? Do you want to go home?”

Rey nods, then shakes her head. “No. I don’t know. I just… I need to get out of here.”

The ignition is turned on. Then the quiet, sleepy hamlet of Holtsville is pierced by the sounds of peeling out as the car reels back, out of the driveway and into the street, stopping short, propelling Rey forward and then jostling her back into the seat as Ben shifts gears.

The gas pedal is pressed all the way down, the engine revving as they zoom past colonials and ranches, past pale lawns still dead from the winter, past a sign reading SPEED LIMIT 25 MPH and SLOW — CHILDREN AT PLAY, and two black figures playing together, kicking a ball. 

Idly, she wonders aloud if it's meant to be a brother and sister, before Ben reminds her it’s just paint on reflective aluminum.

*

Rey doesn't feel like she can breathe until she gets to Manhattan. Considering the level of pollution and over-population of people, she knows this is ironic.

She's never been to New York before; has only seen it in films and television shows. And this is the first time she’s been in Manhattan, as they took the Long Island Expressway straight to the Johnsons’s cornflower-blue ranch house.

The city’s overwhelming. There’s honking and yelling and zig-zagging of cars and people. There’s so many places to look. There’s light everywhere—neon signs and glittering reflections of afternoon sunlight on glass. There’s a layer of grimy filth that seems to coat everything. It’s beautiful and ugly all at the same time.

“I knew we shouldn’t have fucking come,” she hears Ben mutter. Whether it’s to her or himself, she isn’t sure.

Rey stares out the window, at random passerbys, at shops, at signs. One advertising _The Phantom of the Opera_ at the Majestic Theatre catches her eye.

“I can’t believe I missed _Hamlet_ ,” she says. Her voice sounds monotonous and far away, even to her own ears.

“What?” The car inches forward in traffic. “Rey, are you fucking kidding me?”

She doesn’t answer, but she knows her silence is enough. She thinks maybe Ben could read her even if he was blind.

“You know what? I’m taking you to see a fucking play while we’re here. At least something good should come out of this.”

“You say ‘fucking’ a lot.”

Rey finally looks at Ben, to find him already staring at her.

He smiles lopsided. Boyish. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

“Well…” She turns the volume dial all the way up, “The Kids Aren’t Alright” blaring out of the speakers. “Let’s fucking go, then,” she yells over it.

Ben’s smile turns into a grin. He says something in return, but it’s drowned out by the rush of electric guitars and thrumming bass and pounding drums.

Lost.

*

The play is at eight.

Ben spends over $400 for two tickets at the box office.

He spends another $40 at the Met, where they spend three and a half hours. He doesn't complain once, even when Rey goes through the same exhibits three times. (She likes the Van Gogh paintings the best—she doesn’t care if it’s cliché.)

She’s not sure how much he spends on their dinner in Little Italy, but she assumes it’s quite a bit, considering New York prices and the fact it’s a nice restaurant.

She finds that she has to remind herself several times it's not a date. She's eaten meals with Ben literally hundreds of times. In the hospital, it was breakfast, lunch, and dinner. At home, it's mostly just dinner. And they've gone out to eat together before, at Empire Diner in downtown Hanna City.

But... this kind of feels like a date?

Rey doesn't know why. Maybe it's the white tablecloths. Or the flickering tea candle in the middle of the table. Or the red roses and sprigs of baby's breath in vases around the restaurant. Or the way Ben looks at her when he thinks she isn't looking.

After the day she had, Rey really, _really_ wants a bowl. Or a joint. No—a blunt. A big, fat blunt. Maybe vanilla flavored, or apple. But she'll settle for something else.

"I'll have the mushroom ravioli," Rey orders when the waiter comes by, "and a glass of wine, please." She casually closes her laminated menu and hands it to him as if she does this sort of thing all the time. She's an adult.

Ben raises an eyebrow.

"Which one?" the waiter asks, not even blinking an eye.

Rey freezes. Which one? Which one does Leia always drink?

This is the point where Ben is going to stop her. _She’s seventeen,_ he’s going to tell the waiter. _Just a kid. Just a stupid kid I’d never be interested in romantically._ Then he’d make a disgusted face. _Yuck._

“Whatever rosé you recommend,” Ben says to the waiter.

The waiter nods and leaves.

“You’ll like it,” he says as he unfolds his napkin. “It’s sweet.”

It’s an innocent observation. An innocent word. But coming out of Ben, with those lips… Rey’s thankful for the dim lighting and candlelight so he doesn't catch the flush rising to her skin.

Three glasses later, Rey’s warm and light and free as she walks down the twilit sidewalks, the city glittering like fireflies in the pale blueness, weaving past blurs of people effortlessly and feeling very much like a native New Yorker.

“I want to move here,” she says, grabbing a hold of Ben’s bicep without even second-guessing it, pulling herself into him.

“I know,” he says.

“Would you ever move here?”

“Uh…” He runs his free hand through his hair. “I don’t know.”

“You should. So many famous writers have lived in New York. It could be the inspiration you need.” She playfully nudges him.

“I’m not a famous writer. Or even a writer, for that matter.”

“You are,” Rey insists, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. “You’re amazing.”

Ben raises an eyebrow as he glances down at her. “You’ve never read what I’ve written.”

“Well…” She swirls her hand in the air, almost whacking someone walking past. “ _Oh, sorry._ I’m sure it’s amazing. Because _you’re_ amazing.”

Ben chuckles. “Okay, kid. Can’t argue with that logic.”

A beautiful woman walks past. The city is full of beautiful people.

Rey’s certain Ben’s going to look. It’s an inevitability. It’s science. A biological imperative based on facial symmetry and a healthy height/weight ratio combined with Western societal standards of beauty and fashion.

She really couldn’t blame him. How could she? She knows she could never compare to someone like that, even if he didn’t see her as just a kid.

The woman breezes past, strands of her long blonde hair flying in the wind, her eyes fixed straight ahead, her body slightly strutting as she moves on autopilot, off to a party or somewhere else bright and beautiful and alive.

Ben doesn’t look.

*

Rey’s never seen a play before, let alone a Broadway play.

She feels incredibly, embarrassingly underdressed in only her denim shorts and striped tee shirt, which she had to re-wear considering this was _the_ outfit she wanted her parents to see. To jog some memory or something. To remind them of better times… or maybe to punish them for it, she’s no longer sure. It all feels so silly now. How stupid she was, to believe them.

How stupid she was not to bring a sweatshirt.

She shivers in the semi-darkness. A warmth suddenly envelops her, covering her shoulders. Ben’s leather jacket.

Rey leans her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes. Just for a moment. _Un moment, s’il te plaît._

“ _Rey_ ,” Ben murmurs. “You’re going to miss the play.”

“I’m watching,” she mumbles.

She wonders if this is what it's like to have Ben as a boyfriend. To do all the same things they do now, even if it's just listening to records in the tent. To rest her head on his shoulder, to be able to just reach out and touch him anytime she wants. Maybe it's the wine they had, that's making her so bold. Maybe it's the wine that's making him let her.

Or... could it be possible something’s changed?

Her buzz fades well before the two and a half hours are over, before the red velvet curtains swoop over the stage and the lights come on.

Now she’s just left feeling drained. While art and theatre and pasta and wine have made her feel better—while just being around Ben has made her feel better—all she wants to do now is crawl into bed, pull the covers over her head, and slip into oblivion. She barely slept the night before, staying up well past three as anticipation and dread equally tormented her, dreams and nightmares playing out in detailed scenes in her head. And she’d be lying if she said Ben falling asleep next to her didn't cause her fantasies of family togetherness to shift into fantasies of another kind.

When they walk out of the theatre, they're greeted by a din of voices and honking horns while billows of smoke rise from vents in the sidewalks. The night is crisp, winter lingering.

Rey tries to give Ben his jacket back, but he refuses.

“I think we should check into a hotel,” he says as they walk in the direction of the parking garage. At 10:30 at night and an eight and a half hour drive back to Chandrila, Maine, it’s obvious they should. But still, he says it aloud. Perhaps to make sure she's comfortable with it?

Of course she is.

“Here, or after we’re on the road?”

“Up to you,” he says, his hands shoved into his jean pockets, his shoulders slouched tightly together either due to the cold or wanting to avoid brushing other people. She assumes both.

“Here. I want to stay a little while longer.”

“Whatever you want.”

Rey tries to lean into him again, but he pulls slightly away before she can, either anticipating someone about to walk past or subtly dodging her.

Instead, she pulls his jacket around herself tighter.

*

The Algonquin Hotel in Times Square is the most elegant and opulent place Rey has ever seen. Everything glitters gold, accented by green, maroon, and brown. Ferns jut out everywhere, reminding Rey of _The Secret Garden_ , of British Imperialism in India for some reason. She can’t quite tell if the architecture is Edwardian or Art Deco.

Money. It looks like money.

It’s amazing how a scavenger who once had to sleep outside, envious of the dog in the next yard because he got to have a doghouse, is now going to sleep in 1500-thread Egyptian cotton sheets.

“Don’t go,” she says to the air as she stares out the window, down at the glittering streets below.

“Rey…” She hears Ben sigh deeply behind her. “We can’t keep doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“This.”

Rey shrugs. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“There needs to be… boundaries.”

She turns around. “We have boundaries. We—”

“What happened last night…” Ben sighs again, running a hand through his hair. “It can’t happen again.”

“But nothing happened!” She means to say this in defense, but it ends up coming out more like a frustrated complaint.

“ _Rey…_ ”

“All I’m asking is for you to sleep here. Just sleep.” Ben is still hesitating, so Rey goes in for the kill. “After the day I had, I don’t want to be alone. _Please_.”

Ben closes his eyes. He’s still standing in the space between the door and room, but she knows she has him. Part of her feels guilty, like maybe she’s manipulating the situation to get him to stay with her. And maybe she is, but she hasn’t lied. After everything that’s happened today—that’s happened the past twelve years, really—she doesn’t want to be alone. She’s so tired of being alone.

“Fine,” he finally says, not looking at her. “But this is getting to be a habit.”

“What is?” She’s worried he’s going to say something about them falling asleep together. How inappropriate it is. How she’s seventeen. She’s his foster sister. He has a girlfriend. The list goes on.

“Paying for two rooms.”

“Oh.” Rey bites her lip to keep her smile in check. “Yeah.”

*

Rey’s hair is still damp from her shower when she wakes up.

The room is dark, the heavy curtains drawn across the city. The neon numbers on the alarm clock glow 2:47.

There’s something about the middle of the night that makes the world feel like it’s ending. It hits her like a tsunami, all the years of loneliness and grief and abuse and not being wanted. Flashes of the life she could have had, blaring blinding white like an old-fashioned flash bulb with the click of a camera, smoke rising from the flash to get in her eyes and nose, stinging, weeping.

She sees herself in her three buns, riding a brand new red bike with a bow, leaning over birthday cake, smiling, happy, loved.

It’s crashing over her. It’s dragging her down current after current. She feels like she might drown in all the sadness, if it weren’t for Ben.

His arms are around her protectively, holding her tightly against him. His breaths are deep and even, his chest rising and falling behind her. She lets his breaths calm her, anchor her. In, out. In, out.

She presses against the length of his body, needing to be closer. But it’s not close enough.

She turns in his arms.

 _Ben._ Her heart thumps madly. _Ben, Ben, Ben._

He looks so peaceful like this. So young.

A tuft of black waves has fallen across his face. She gently pushes it back.

She kisses his forehead.

The tip of his nose.

His left cheek.

She brushes his lips with her own.

Ben opens his eyes slowly. Blinks. “ _Rey…_ ” he whispers into the darkness, his voice low and thick with sleep.

“Shh,” she says against his lips, not applying any pressure. Not yet.

“Rey…” She sees his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “We can’t.”

“Please. I just... I need to feel something else. Anything. _Please,_ Ben. Make me feel something. Make me forget.”

Ben closes his eyes again.

“I need you. _Please_.”

He doesn’t respond.

This is it. She’s finally done it. She’s pushed too much. She’s pushed him away.

He doesn’t want her.

No one wants her. The poor little foster kid who’s even lower than an orphan because her parents aren’t dead. She’s nobody. She’s nothing.

She’s never felt worse in her entire life. This is agony. She wants to die right here and now. She’s never wanted to die as much as this moment, not even when she had attempted to kill herself all those months ago.

Suddenly, Ben's sitting up, filling his lungs with deep gulps of air like a drowning man.

He turns his head to the side. Looks back at her, down at her.

What is he thinking? She can’t read him. She can never read him the way he can read her. It’s not fair.

The mattress coils are springing, depressing with his weight as he leans over her.

He seems to hesitate for a second or two, but then he reaches down to where the covers are and begins pulling.

He pulls them off her body slowly. Entirely.

Before she can wonder what he’s about to do next, he’s grasping the waistband of her leggings with both hands, his fingers curling into the band.

A firm tug.

Ben’s pulling them down.

Off her hips, over her bum, down her thighs, over her knees and shins and feet, until they’re completely off, the cool recycled air hitting her bare skin and causing thousands of hairs to raise in goosebumps.

Rey shivers.

_This is actually happening._

Her stomach is doing somersaults, jolts of electricity shooting straight down. Over and over and over.

Her heart is pounding, _Yes, yes, yes, yes._

She still has her panties on. They’re not a fancy silk pair or anything Ben would probably be used to seeing—just a cotton white with dainty pink and yellow flowers printed on them. A flash of embarrassment heats her up, but Ben doesn’t seem to mind.

His eyes… they look blacker than she’s ever seen them.

His palms are heavy and hot upon her skin, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin of her inner thighs as he moves his hands up slowly.

And even though she anticipates it—has dreamt of this more times than she’ll ever admit—it’s still a shock when he grabs a hold of the elastic band, and this time, he pulls her panties down too.

She’s thankful he can’t see her blush in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Note:_ The age of consent in Maine is 16. Rey is a few months shy of 18. I understand this still might be a no-go for some, but I didn’t want to tag it and spoil such an important part. If you’re upset about this, please note that I did label this as both E and "author chose not to use archive warnings."
> 
>  **Next chapter:** "Glycerine" by Bush
> 
> If you liked this story/chapter, please let me know. 💙


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